Sainan no Kekka: Act 0
by Gerald Tarrant and Quicksilver
Summary: The prologue to Sainan no Kekka, recommended for newcomers and old fans. Immediately after the war, the world is left to deal with Treize's death and hunt for life after... complete.
1. Welcome and Introduction

_Gundam Wing is property of Sotsu Agency, Bandai Studios, and TV Asahi. Sainan no Kekka and all original characters and plot copyright 2000-2003 by Quicksilver and Gerald Tarrant. Please ask permission before reposting._

  
**SHIN KIDOU SENKI GUNDAM WING  
SAINAN NO KEKKA**

Welcome to Sainan no Kekka.

Act 0 of the story takes place before the true Sainan no Kekka story starts: detailing events as far back as 17 years before the war all the way up to the end of AC 196. The rest of the story begins six months afterwards in the future of the Gundam Wing timeline, to the summer of AC 197, where the characters have had time to build upon their peacetime lives… and something is brewing underneath the surface. This is a world in which the Endless Waltz OVA never happened, where Mariemeia never lived, and where the post-war world and colonies are focusing on getting back on their feet.

Act 0 was written three years after we began the original story, but it was done to bring a cohesiveness to the story, give some more backstory on the characters, and illustrate many of the themes which become important later on. Since it was written later, there are some stylistic differences that the reader will notice going into the first Arc (The Revelations Arc). It's to be expected that a writer's style will change and improve dramatically over the course of three years, and this is what happened to us. It isn't until Act IV that you will notice the same style of writing that will carry throughout the rest of the story. Eventually we plan on rewriting most of the Acts, but that hasn't stopped thousands of Gundam Wing fans from enjoying the story already. 

The Prologue focuses primarily on Treize and other key features that bring our characters to the points in their lives before, during and after the war. Treize is the universal mover and shaker, and one of the greatest mysteries of the Gundam Wing series is exactly who Treize was, and what his motivations were. The previous act was designed to illustrate various aspects of his personality and how different characters saw him: god, devil, messiah, soldier, leader, scholar, cousin, friend, mentor, beloved and man. This amazing complexity is something we hope Sainan no Kekka will illustrate through all of its characters to you, the reader.

Treize's influence, though he is gone, is felt throughout the story… though he is not the main character. Treize remains as an icon to a new age, an age that no one understands… and an age that stands on the silent verge of destruction.

_"The dead can't hurt you. It's the living that you have to worry about." _

Let's see, shall we?

**Quicksilver and Gerald Tarrant, Sainan no Kekka authors  
09 February 2003**

  
Act 0 Part I | Back to Sainan no Kekka 


	2. Treize Khushrenada : The Creator of Hist...

_Gundam Wing is property of Sotsu Agency, Bandai Studios, and TV Asahi. Sainan no Kekka and all original characters and plot copyright 2000-2003 by Quicksilver and Gerald Tarrant. Please ask permission before reposting._

  
**SHIN KIDOU SENKI GUNDAM WING**

SAINAN NO KEKKA  
ACT ZERO, PART I

** Kotoba yori wakariaeru  
Manazashi ga soko ni areba  
Hito wa minna ikite yukeru  
Mayowazu ni jiyuu ni**

Ayamachi o koete  
Kizuku hontou no yasashisa  
Anata to mitsuketa kara  
Ai to yoberu tsuyosa o

I believe your dream  
Tsunoru omoi  
Itoshisa o inori ni kaete  
Kono kodou o tsutaetai yo  
Atsuku hageshiku so far away  
** If we could communicate with a gaze  
Better than we could with words  
People would all live  
Freely without losing our way**

Overcoming our faults  
We realize true kindness  
Because with you  
I found a strength called love

I believe your dream  
Feelings that get stronger  
Turning love into prayers  
I want to let you hear my heart beating  
Passionately, fiercely, so far away  


**--Gundam Wing, _Last Impression_  
[Endless Waltz]**  


  
  
**Scene I: Towards the Future, Across the Stars**

  


_"A life is too precious to be replaceable.  
It is only when facing an enemy and risking one's own precious life that,  
amidst all the sorrow, a warrior's soul will shine with nobility."  
--Treize Khushrenada, Gundam Wing_

  
Her name was Lucrezia Noin, and she was just a soldier.

True, she had been more than that - much more than that - in her lifetime, or so everyone said, but she still preferred to think of herself as a common soldier. Greatness was a relative thing, and so was being common. She had been brought up to believe otherwise - that greatness was a thing that one was born to, and the common people were those who could not ascend to the level of greatness that some had the right to by birth. Through her own observation, she had proved that proposition false.

It seemed very foolish, to her, to think that the world was painted in black and white, good and evil. 

She had been nine years old when her life had changed, nine years old, just a child, but precocious for her age. All her relatives had always remarked on what a precocious little child she was, how intelligent and how cute and really, how could her grandfather allow her to be this serious all the time? That was the adjective they used most often, more than the rest. She was such a serious child. Serious and precocious. Her grandfather needed to let her see other children more often or she'd grow up to be a little old lady much too quickly.

It was true that she had few friends, for she had a private tutor at home so she had never needed to go to school. She knew had a half-brother somewhere who was seven years older, but she didn't know much about him. Her grandparents were wealthy enough to afford a few servants just for her care, and she was well taken care of. It was never stated, but it was implied that those who mattered expected her to grow up to be a fine lady, to marry a good man and to settle down to the life of an upper-class married woman. She wasn't sure what she thought of that, so she buried her nose in books and scrawled away her thoughts in diaries in her awkward child's handwriting. She'd found an old telescope in the attic, and every so often, she would pull it out and spend the nights stargazing when everyone thought she was asleep.

Her grandfather had found her one night, and she was afraid he would rebuke her and tell her to go to bed, but to her surprise, he'd sat down with her at the windowsill and pointed out all the different constellations and star names to her. That was the only real conversation she ever had with him.

She had never known her parents. She wasn't even sure if the man and woman she called grandfather and grandmother were her real grandparents, but they were kind to her. Her grandmother was there as often as she could be, but she was an aging woman and was not in the best of health. Her grandfather was often away. She'd hear snatches of conversation behind closed doors sometime of politics and war, and she knew her grandfather was involved in something, but precocious as she was, she had been too young to realize that he had been one of the heads of the Federation. When she was old enough to know, it was too late, because he died just after her ninth birthday. 

It had been at her grandfather's funeral, a solemn affair in which they'd driven to an elegant funeral home outside the town, where the black-draped casket was set up in the middle of the great vaulted room and the men looked very sad in their black suits and ladies sniffled into little black-laced edged handkerchiefs. She'd held her grandmother's hand while her grandmother cried, sat by her during the funeral and patted her shoulder while the black-suited priest read the funeral rites in a monotone, droning voice. Her grandfather had been Roman Catholic, like all good Italians were.

Lucrezia did not cry.

Afterwards after the burial, the guests milled about in the little antechamber outside, taking tiny sips of wine from fluted glasses and speaking in hushed tones about her grandfather and "Cinq" and "the Federation." Their voices would drop to a whisper whenever she passed by, as if they were trying to protect her from such things. She was not scornful of the fact, but she thought it odd that they were trying to keep information from her that she already knew.

There would be a war, she knew. Even though she was just nine years old, it was obvious that the world was not a happy place, no matter how many happy things people tried to surround her with. 

Bored with the conversation, she had left the room and gone wandering through the old funeral home. She had always been an inquisitive child without being overly obnoxious, and she did not believe in supernatural things, or ghosts. Still, the darkened hallways of the building and the fact that a funeral had just taken place here made her spine tingle. She wasn't sure what exactly she would do if she were to be confronted by a ghost, and the thought at once intrigued her and frightened her, in an exciting, anticipating kind of way.

The corridor split in two at the end of a long passage and she paused, glancing both down the right and the left. Which one should she choose? They both looked rather dark and spooky, both prospective homes for ghosts that might haunt this place. She recalled an old poem about two roads, diverging in a wood, and felt the shiver up her spine again.

After a few minutes of intense deliberation, much more than it would seem to take for a mere decision regarding which hallway to take on a tour of a funeral home, she chose the hallway to the right.

The hallway was short, and before she knew it, it had opened up into a small room cloaked in heavy draperies. She stopped at the doorway, one hand clinging to the frame, almost afraid to go in for fear of what she would find there, but at last the voice of reason overcame her fear and she took a cautious step into the room.

It was quite empty, she discovered, as her eyes adjusted to the dimmer light. The walls were covered with black drapes….velvet? Perhaps it was a private room for the higher-ranked dead, or a viewing room. She shivered again at the thought that she might be standing where a coffin would once have been, lid open, dead face of the deceased laid bare for relatives and friends to pay their last respects.

She stood there for a moment more then realized that the room was not entirely dark, as she had thought. There was a light at the far end, and she walked towards it curiously to discover that it was not a light after all, but only the moonlight shining through a window in a door that led outside. She put her hand to the handle and was delighted to find that it was not locked.

Closing the door softly behind her, she padded out onto the balcony. A delicious breeze was blowing and this side of the funeral home overlooked a beautiful part of the Italian rural countryside. She gazed over the fields for a moment, noting the small wood that clustered at the edge of her vision to the left, and the winding river, sparkling silver, snaking across the fields to the horizon.

"_Buona sera_," said a low, pleasant voice.

She jumped, clutching at the balcony, and whirled around. She hadn't noticed that anyone was out here on the balcony with her. Was it a ghost? Her heart beat faster at the thought.

But no…there was someone there, leaning on the wall at the far side of the balcony. He - it was a man, by the sound of his voice - was almost entirely shadowed, and all she could see of him were the beginnings of black trousers tucked into the tops of elegant boots. For a second, she blinked, and then wondered how she could not have noticed him before - he had such a powerful presence. Some people were like that, she remembered her grandfather saying. Larger than life.

"Hello," she ventured. "Do I know you?" Though that was a foolish question, because if she did know him, she knew that there was no way she could ever have forgotten.

She could hear a slight smile in his voice. "Hello to you too. No, I don't believe we've met…I'm sorry - I didn't mean to startle you."

"Yes you did," she said solemnly.

There was a pause. "Did I?"

"Well," she said, "if you hadn't meant to startle me, you would have talked to me when I had first come out here, wouldn't you? And you wouldn't be standing in the shadows like that. Why don't you come out?"

The almost-laughter again. "Perhaps I'm more comfortable talking to you when you don't know who I am."

She found this odd. "Why would I know who you are?"

"You're a smart girl," he said. "You notice things. I've watched you. You like people - well, perhaps like is too strong a word. You enjoy watching them, I think."

"I suppose," she said dubiously. "But I don't have any friends. Or even acquaintances, except for my grandmother's friends, and they are all far too old to be you. Are you here for my grandfather's funeral?"

Usually after she said something like that, the adults would coo and say something about how precocious she was. But he didn't do that. Instead, she saw the briefest sign of a nod through the dark shadows that covered his face. "I never knew him personally, but he was an acquaintance. Someone I admired greatly. His loss is greater than you know."

"You're from the Federation then," she said, matter-of-factly. "I know he was a general. A very high-placed one."

"Indeed. He was." The voice took on a curious tone. "Did he tell you this?"

"No one tells me anything," she said. "I usually figure it out by myself."

Another pause. "I see."

The conversation seemed to be halted, so she turned back to her landscape gazing. The stars were out tonight and for a brief moment she wished she had her telescope. It was always nice to look at the stars away from the city lights, which made them look faint and far away.

"Do you like the stars?" he said.

She shrugged. "I suppose. It's a hobby, among other things."

"Interesting. It's also a hobby of mine."

She perked up. "Really? My grandfather showed me some of the names of the stars once. I don't have much experience in stargazing, since I don't have access to any reference materials. I suppose I enjoy it, though."

"That's too bad," he said. "It's much more exciting when you can identify their names. Each star has a history, you know. Each unique. Each beautiful."

"You seem to know a lot about the subject."

This time he did laugh. "I suppose I could consider myself an amateur stargazer. Though the stars are much more beautiful up close, in space."

That caught her attention. "You've been to space?"

"A few times." His tone was dismissive. "Not as much as I would like."

"I've always wondered what it would be like," she said quietly, surprising herself as she said the words. She'd never given the subject much thought, but now that it had been brought up, she was startled to feel an overwhelming curiosity.

"I would try to describe it for you…but my words would do it no justice. Though I will say that it is very beautiful, as you probably have already guessed."

"I would imagine," she said. "Are you a Federation soldier? Is that why you can go up in space?"

"You could say that."

"Oh."

He chuckled. "It makes you feel small, the stars, when you are out in the blackness of space and they're burning around you. It makes you think of perspective - how very insignificant humans are in the grand scale of the universe. How small our petty quarrels are in the light of these stars, which have existed since the beginning of time."

"It sounds all very grand," she said. "And exciting."

"Oh, it's much more than that." His voice grew deeper, a minute fluctuation of tone that she would have missed if she was not listening carefully. A shiver of excitement ran through her. "It's…how should I say it? Epic? Spiritual? Perhaps…that it completes the soul."

She cocked her head, thinking. "They've always seemed very peaceful to me. The stars, I mean. Though I suppose they could be epic as well."

"Peaceful…perhaps." He paused. "Perhaps if all humans had the chance to experience their light, they would understand the nature of the conflict within them."

She thought about this for a moment. "Are you saying that if all humans could go to the stars, then there would be no more war?"

"I am no judge of that," he said, sounding regretful. "Maybe that would be the case. But all human beings will not have the chance to go to the stars. It is up to those of us who do go to show them the innate nobility within each one of us."

His words were beginning to give her a headache. "I don't understand."

His tone was strangely gentle. "It's all right. I didn't either until recently. It's a hard concept to grasp, even for those many years older than you and who deem themselves wiser."

"I'm not wise," she said stoutly. "I'm just precocious."

At that, he laughed again. "Is that what they call you?"

"Usually."

"Being precocious," he said, "is just a term that adults use for children who possess wisdom beyond their years."

"I'm only ten years old," she persisted. "I can't be wise."

She heard him sigh. "One day, child…you will learn that there is nothing certain in this world. That nothing is as black and white as it seems. That sometimes the only thing you can believe is that you are doing what you think is right."

"What do you mean?" she whispered, feeling suddenly as if she were caught up in some sort of wonderful and fantastic dream that was drawing to its great climax.

He smiled, an almost imperceptible curving of his lips in the dark, and for some reason, this time when he paused, she expected there to be some kind of fanfare. Some kind of grand orchestral accompaniment for him when he spoke again, to herald the arrival of his words. But there was only the wind, the wind and the trees and the river and the stars, burning above them with a heavenly fire. She was not cold, but she shivered.

"You will go to the stars," he said.

She frowned. "Me?"

She saw him nod again. "Some people say that destinies can be read in the stars."

"Have you read mine, then?"

"Perhaps." She heard him smiling again, but it was a kind smile, one that for some reason brought tears to her eyes. "You have a warrior's soul and a noble spirit. Someday…you will go to the stars. Your destiny lies there."

"Me?" she said again, this time whispering it, as if the silence was so fragile that a single word from her lips would break it open and send it tumbling into the void of time.

"Lucrezia Noin," he murmured. "One day, you will be great."

"What do you mean?" she demanded, shaken.

But he simply bowed to her, and she heard the click of his boots and the clanking of a dress sword in its scabbard and the whoosh of the door closing behind him as he left the balcony. The air was still thick with the force of his presence, and when she took a deep breath, she imagined she could still smell the scent of him, clean, pure, burning with a dark brightness that surpassed even the light of the stars.

She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to steady herself, and when she opened them again, it was just the Italian countryside - quaint and lovely in the silver moonlight. That was all.

"Lucrezia? Thank goodness! "

That was her grandmother's voice. She turned as the old lady shuffled through the door, and felt a jolt, as if she had been upside down and the world had suddenly whirled around her and righted itself. There was relief on the wrinkled face. "I've been looking for you everywhere...you didn't tell me where you'd gone! I would have never found you if it hadn't been for that young man."

Her pulse quickened. "What young man?"

Her grandmother took her hand. "A very nice young man…I didn't know his name. He was a soldier by the looks of him, though he wasn't wearing the uniform. You can always tell by the way they carry themselves, those soldiers. Your grandfather was like that…" The words trailed off into a choked whisper.

Lucrezia squeezed her grandmother's hand. "Don't cry, nonna," she whispered. "Don't cry. It's all right. Grandfather…he is in a better place now."

_He is with the stars._

She had only been nine years old then, but she had known with all certainty as the stranger spoke those words on the balcony that night, that they would change her life. She had never desired to be great, but that was the night she discovered that there was a longing in her heart for much more - that greatness was simply a matter of perspective, and even the most common soldier could be great, in the end, if that soldier had a warrior's soul and a noble spirit. Because she had always considered herself a common soldier, just as they were all common soldiers that had somehow found their destinies in the stars.

And it had been the stars, in the end, that made them great.

Her grandfather.

Her, Lucrezia Noin.

And Treize Khushrenada, the man that the world would one day know both as its destroyer and its savior, but who for her would always remain the nameless boy who had given her the future one night underneath the stars.

  


* * *

  
**Scene II: Cousins by Birth and Destiny**

  


_"We're on our own cousin, all alone cousin.  
Let's think of a game to play now the grownups have all gone away."  
--The Who, Cousin Kevin_

  
When she was little, Dorothy tried to memorize her family tree. The Catalonia family tree was intricately entwined with her mother's family, so closely tied that she sometimes wasn't sure if someone was a cousin on both sides or not.

Not that it really mattered, seeing as how most of her family was dead. The Khushrenadas were renowned for dying violent and sudden deaths at young ages, while the Catalonias were a military family that tended to get themselves killed gloriously in war. When she was little, she had believed her mother, who swore up and down that dying in battle was one of the stupidest thing a person could do. Emily had loved Leon as much as she loved anyone, and he had died in the line of duty… which she never forgave him for.

Dorothy almost bought it - but when she was seven, she met one of her cousins who was both a Khushrenada and Catalonia. 

Dorothy lived with her grandfather, Duke León Alejandro Philippe Catalonia Dermail, on a high cliff in a castle by the sea. He was not a kind man, or a gentle one, but he did care for her deeply, and she knew it. Emily visited when she remembered to, always stressing social dramas and being a lady. Dorothy knew, somehow, that her mother did not love her. 

Duke Dermail did, and he tried to make her part of his plans. He had wondrous plans for the world and she, with her keen intellect, could be a part of it. Not for her was the family's traditional military path; no, she was destined for greater things. He would smile and whisper of his dreams and goals, and she would nod and listen as he promised her a world to inherent. She was a Catalonia, he told her, and the world had always been theirs to rule. It was time for her to start learning about power.

Still, even the most precocious seven-year-old girl would ignore that and be attracted to her mother's vibrant personality. Whenever her mother came, life lit the castle, and balls and soirees filled the vacant house. Dorothy wasn't allowed to attend these, of course, but she always crept downstairs to spy on the beautiful ladies in their expensive gowns. The ladies and gentlemen would dance, and she wanted to be a part of it, to be one of those beautiful people.

It was at one of those functions that she met her cousin.

She was supposed to be in bed, of course, but the rules didn't bother her. Rules were made to be broken, and if someone found you breaking them, you accepted the punishment with good grace, making a mental note not to get caught again…at least, not the same way. It was like playing chess, a game which her grandfather adored and which she was learning as well. She was well on her way to being one of the youngest grandmasters in the decade.

Dorothy padded downstairs wearing her long blue nightgown. The light blue silk fell to her feet, and though the floors were cold, she hadn't worn slippers, finding it easier to move soundlessly and slip back into bed should there be close calls. Wearing slippers in bed had gotten her in trouble once, evidence of one of her nights out.

She ducked into the corner of the ballroom, watching the ladies in their fine dresses and men in their dress gloves and suits offering to escort them to the dance floor. She already knew how to dance, and enjoyed it whenever she got the chance… it was a challenge, something physical. Most of what she did was mental, but her grandfather was determined that she be well rounded. She enjoyed the dancing lessons most of all, sometimes even to the point of neglecting her other lessons, including fencing. Trying to convince her to enjoy the art, her fencing instructor had once tried to point out how fencing really was just one form of dance. It had, to his surprise, worked.

_A dance which could be deadly…_ she thought a bit in fear, sometimes. That fear was the only thing that truly kept her from excelling at fencing the way her coach claimed she had the talent to. She had the instinct, but her mother's hatred for the Catalonia's military heritage ruled her.

She shut her eyes as she listened to the music, humming softly as the fourteen-piece orchestra played a few waltzes she recognized. Her long nightgown was almost like a dress, and if she shut her eyes, she could pretend…

A quiet voice disturbed her fantasies, "You're Dorothy, aren't you?"

She spun around, preparing to dart away, but she had been recognized. The person would probably mention her presence to her mother, who would fly into a rage at having her party disturbed, or her grandfather, who would be disappointed in her for being discovered. With Duke Dermail, it was a game about whether or not she was caught… and this time, she was. So she decided to bear up under good grace, turning a brilliantly sweet and childlike smile on her captor. "Yes," she said, looking up at him shyly through her lashes. She curtseyed with deliberate clumsiness, playing up the cute child angle for all she was worth. "I just wanted to watch…"

The man laughed, and stepped a bit more into the light. Her quick eyes studied him, recognizing the insignia of a Federation lieutenant. He was young, which meant he hadn't screwed up, and since he was here, he was either a family member or a member of some VIP's party. "I'm sure," he said. "I've been wanting to meet you for a while… I have so few family members left."

She blinked slowly as he confirmed the first, her agile mind running through the possibilities of who he was. Male, young… she tried to fit the relative to the name, but he could be an uncle or cousin on either side, easily, or some forgotten branch. Fifth degree cousins liked to claim relation to the Catalonia family, especially those in the military. Dorothy's father had once been the leader of the Federation military, after all. "I always thought the family was big," she said shyly, hoping her pretense would keep him from reporting her to a nearby adult who would haul her upstairs and assign her extra lessons, "since she had the time to get into trouble."

"The extended family is, yes," the man said, smiling at her. "But those of us who are Khushrenada and Catalonias both, and whose blood is undiluted by other lines… we're rarer. A dying breed, I'd think many people would say, but I don't like to think so. We burn brightly…" He held out his hand for her to take, and she did so shyly. To her surprise, he bent down to brush a polite social kiss across her knuckles, and from his eyes, she knew that he wasn't mocking her.

Despite her age, he was taking her seriously. "Who are you?" she demanded, demanding her pose of demureness.

He smiled slightly. "Treize Khushrenada."

Her mind flickered over the family tree she had tried to memorize. "You're my cousin… one of the ones who's a real cousin, not a poser," she realized, blushing a bit when he raised an eyebrow. Her remark had been tactless, something her grandfather had tried, and failed, to get her to work on. She always spoke without thinking.

"Yes," he agreed. "I'm the real thing." There was a slight bit of pride there, but a desperate sorrow that she didn't - and never would be able to - understand in his rich voice. "And so are you, my lady."

"Are you going to tell on me?" she demanded, sensing that he liked her boldness more than her faked manners.

Her pretended to think on it before answering. "Not if you'll play me in a game of chess. I've been led to understand that you're a very good player, and it's been a while since I've had a game with a worthy opponent."

Dorothy's breath quickened. She loved chess, the game and the matching of wits. She was a good player, and her grandfather was better. It was a Catalonia tradition to learn young, to hone the wits for the battlefield, and apparently this Treize has inherited the same love for it. "The nearest set is in the library," she said softly. "No one goes there for during these balls… but will you be missed?"

He shrugged. "I'm just a minor personage. No one should come looking for me… and since it sounds like you should be in bed…" He said, arcing an eyebrow.

She blushed a bit. "This way," she said, indicating a small side door with her hand. "If I'm caught, they'll set me a bunch of punishment homework."

"Essays," Treize said with sympathy and a bit of exasperation, and she rolled her eyes in agreement. "They did the same to me - said the traditional 500 sentences of 'I will learn to behave and listen to my elders because they know what is right for me,' was useless. They always said you should learn something from a punishment, not just repeat rote lines that wouldn't sink in."

"Did you learn anything?" Dorothy asked curiously as she led him through one of the narrow servant's hallways to the library.

"Oh, yes. Not to get caught."

She liked this Treize. Most adults would have praised the assigned essays for the history they imparted, but his honesty with her was refreshing. Only her grandfather ever treated her like she had a brain worth something, but he was often busy with politics or would sometimes just look at her, and not really see her, but more of an echo from the past. She wondered about that, sometimes. It would take years for her to understand that Duke Dermail saw his own deceased daughter in her face every time she challenged him or asked him a question. 

"I can't seem to avoid getting caught," she muttered a bit as she can to the large library doors. Like most of the formal rooms in the house, they were oversized and heavy, but so well maintained that the swung open on silent hinges when she nudged them. 

"But do you do they catch you doing the same thing twice?" Treize asked, as his eyes scanned the elegantly appointed room. They lingered on the leather-bound books, and she heard his slight sigh of satisfaction.

"Never!" she said, blushing a bit as she realized how quickly she had spat that answer out.

"Then it's all good," he murmured. He walked over to the shelves and brushed his white gloves across the titles… _Macbeth,Ulysses, Romance of the Three Kingdoms, The Lord of the Rings, The Three Musketeers, Beowulf, The Art of War…_ "I'm glad to see your grandfather maintains an adequate book collection. Most people use electronic books nowadays…"

She smiled slightly. "My mother thinks it's stupid," she informed him softly as she went over to shift the ivory chess set onto the main table. She pulled out the box and deftly begin to set up the pieces, smiling slightly as Treize walked over to her.

"Real books are special," he said. "In this age of modern technology, they are a tie to our past. Hold one sometime - one of the older ones here… and imagine who has read it before, who held the same book in their hands, and who they thought. A hardcopy book has more texture and history then an electronic copy."

"I never thought of it like that," Dorothy admitted. "White or black?"

"Black. Most people don't." He took the seat across from her, shifting his dress uniform's cloak back with an refined thoughtlessness that only breeding could instill.

She watched, wondering if her own breeding would ever become so clear. Her mother was working with her on her grace, but sometimes, the only thing Dorothy felt she could do right was screw up. Emily was impatient with her. With a shake of her head, she focused her attention onto the board, and it because about the black and white squares that danced before her eyes.

Treize was a good player, she realized immediately. Her aggressive style was countered immediately, move for move, and she was delighted at his laid-back and almost understated manner. It was very different than battling her grandfather, who played with the same kill-or-be-killed style she favored. Meeting people on a chess board was truly a way to get to know them.

The game was evenly matched, and she lost track of time as they moved their pieces around, trying to find an advantage. She felt the sweat start to bead on her face as her competitive nature engaged. The only person who regularly defeated her was her grandfather.

Finally, it came, and Treize was the first to make a minor mistake that only an experienced player would notice. He left his queen open; taking it would cost her the knight, but if she got rid of his queen, it would only be a matter of time before she managed to have him in check. She shifted her knight, taking his queen in a brilliant stroke - or so she thought. 

The slight smile on his lips raised her awareness as he moved a piece, murmuring, "Checkmate."

"Huh?" she exclaimed, unable to think of anything more intelligent to say. She stared at him as he shifted a pawn forward, utterly changing the total layout of the game. "The queen sacrifice," she murmured after a moment. She had known of the technique, of course, but she never used it herself. It went against the grain for her, and her grandfather hated it as well. If an opponent saw it and countered, it meant almost certain loss. Dorothy hated the idea.

Treize didn't seem at all bothered by the risk he had taken. "Think on this, Dorothy. No one likes to think outside the box - one of the hardest things for a chess player to do is to sacrifice their queen, since she's their most powerful tool… but when I did, I assured myself of victory. A pawn can be underestimated; a queen can be sacrificed. No piece on the board should be left unutilized… because the name of the game is to win."

She looked at him, nibbling on her lower lip a bit as she realized that he wasn't talking just about chess. "You have ambitions, don't you?"

He gave her a nod after a moment's hesitation. "It's something that both sides of our family are born with. You and I, being both Catalonia and Khushrenada, are doubly cursed. We're at war with ourselves and the world, but it's not for ourselves that we fight… we fight because we genuinely believe that we can make a difference, and that it's our destiny and duty to make it so."

She thought on that for a moment, her fingers idly picking up the queen he had sacrificed to bring about her defeat. "If… that happens, we may not always be on the same side," she said softly.

"Probably. But I'll know that whatever side you chose, you chose it because you believe… and because you understand. People have probably told you that you have a great future - I'm not going to. You have a great present. Now is the time, Dorothy. Now is the time to start deciding what you want, because within the next decade, the world will shift beyond our recognition."

She toyed with a loose strand of her hair before holding up the queen to the light. "And… what's your sacrifice?" she asked after a moment. Outside the room, the hallway clock chimed midnight.

"Any piece on the board - up to and including the king," he returned softly.

Dorothy blinked. "If you lose the king, you lose the game!"

Treize's answering smile was somehow both brilliant and sorrowful. "Chess analogies fail here… but sometimes, it's not about winning. It's about how well you play the game."

  


* * *

  
**Scene III: Silence of the Holy Place**

  


_"Give me release…witness me.  
I am outside…give me peace…  
Heaven holds a sense of wonder."  
--Sarah McLachlan, Silence_

  
He was on the steps of the old church when he saw them coming around the corner.

The abandoned church was his haunt, his hideout, his home, really, among the mice and rats and dead insects that inhabited the place. He didn't mind living amidst the insects and the rodents - they didn't bother him and he didn't bother them. He rarely had guests. It wasn't wise to make friends in places like the slums of L1, called the Breaks by those who knew it best, and besides, he didn't know what he would have done with friends. He worked alone.

Anyone who saw him wouldn't have given him a passing glance. He was the same as all the other street orphans that haunted the crumbling streets of the Breaks: skinny, dirty, pale, rank with the odor of unwashed hair and body and human excrement. The only thing that might have gotten him a closer glance was the pair of dark, gem-brilliant blue eyes that peered out from under bangs too long uncut. But no one had ever gotten close enough to even notice the way the light seemed to glance off the blueness of his eyes, seemed to reflect and be absorbed at the same time just like light reflects and is absorbed by cold polished marble.

He had no name.

The others he came in contact with referred to him as Zero, because he was nothing. He didn't mind the name. It was a good name for street work, the drug running that he did for the smaller cartels, and he was content to remain anonymous. He met other boys and girls once in a while, runners all of them, with names like Devil and Snakeskin and Hex. He preferred Zero. It was complex in its simplicity, implying nothing and everything at once. He couldn't remember who had given him the title, just that he had adopted it.

The light was fading rapidly as he backed away into the entryway of the church, backing up until he could feel the sharp poking of the crumbled arch against the bones of his back. There he stood silently, watching the strangers come nearer. They were talking, though he couldn't hear them. He knew they were strangers, because he knew every living thing that usually crossed these parts around this time of day, and they were new.

The church had had a steeple once, but it was long gone. Hacked off as a cruel joke or struck by lightning he didn't know, but all that was left was a jagged stone stump where the crucifix once was. The stones of the inside walls were falling into ruin and water leaked from between the molding roof tiles whenever it rained. The wooden pews were almost all gone, stolen by those who couldn't afford to buy their own wood. There were bloodstains on the front steps, almost all washed away by the rain but not quite, and sometimes he'd squat for hours just staring at them, wondering where they had come from.

It was an odd place to build a church, really, in the middle of the Breaks. As if someone had really believed that God could spare an eye on this place and its people, the lowliest of the lowly, and offer them deliverance.

Perhaps that was why the church stood empty now. Because God hadn't deemed it necessary. Because He had decided it wasn't worth it.

He didn't believe in God.

As the strangers drew nearer, he could see that they weren't dressed like assassins or drug runners or dealers or any of the regular people who inhabited the areas near the church. In fact, their clothes looked fairly new, though the one on the left had a long, tattered-looking overcoat drawn over what was obviously a fine quality suit. The dress shoes gave it away. His brain did a double-turn on itself, and he shuffled forward just to peer at the man's clothing, wondering who in their right mind would wear clothes like that in a place like this.

He wondered how much the clothing was worth.

The man on the right was much more shabbily dressed, but still not down to Breaks standards. He was a strange one, a little stoop-shouldered, walking as though he wasn't sure which way he was going, his long, gray hair flowing back over his shoulders and a little drooping mustache hanging down over the corners of his mouth. But it was the contraption over his eyes that intrigued the boy most - a machine-like device that he'd never seen before. Maybe everyone who didn't live in the Breaks wore something like that over their eyes, and he would have had one too if he didn't live here.

_What an odd man_, his eyes said to his brain in fascination, and his brain replied, _I wonder how much we could get for those shoes his partner's wearing?_

His stomach rumbled and he drew back hastily, trying to remain very still and hoping they would pass him by quickly so he could dart out and finish the job. Those shoes could mean dinner tonight. He fingered the long knife he wore tucked into his boot, trying to decide which of the two men was more dangerous and if they both had weapons. He didn't have a gun. Guns were expensive, and the cartel did not let any of their runners carry guns on the job. That hadn't stopped several runners he knew from trying to acquire them anyway, but the cartel always found out. And when the cartel found out, that was the end of you.

He didn't need a gun anyway. He was as good with a knife, perhaps even better, than many of those cowards who relied on their guns for defense.

The strange pair was passing the steps of the church now and just for a moment, the false setting sun flared, dyeing them in a rich, crimson red. And in that moment, the man with the contraption on his eye stopped, glancing towards the church. The boy had the strangest feeling that he was looking straight at him, a long, measured, calculating look that was full of…what?

And in that moment, he knew that the small, stoop-shouldered man was dangerous.

The sun slipped lower and the man's companion was turning, frowning. The man himself had turned away. Maybe he hadn't seen him after all. If he was going to kill them, now was the time to do it. He tensed, ready to leap out of his hiding place. 

He didn't even see the man move, but suddenly he was facing the church again, feet planted firmly and in his outstretched hand was a gun. The boy froze.

"I know you're there," the man said. The gun didn't waver. Its bright, polished surface shone dull metallic red in the light of the sunset, and he swallowed, suddenly afraid. It was a strange feeling - he couldn't remember the last time he had been afraid. But there was something about this man.

"I know you're there," the man said again, this time his voice softer, but the gun held steady. "Come out, and you will not be harmed."

He could have scoffed at the threat, leapt out and tried his chances on the man and his companion, ignored the weapon in the man's hand. He'd done it before and survived, with the scars to prove it. But somehow this man was different, and he hesitated only a moment before slipping the knife back into his boot and stepping out from the shadows to the top of the steps.

"What do you want?" he called out defiantly.

To his surprise, the man's face softened into something that resembled a smile, and the gun mysteriously vanished. He blinked. He hadn't seen the man put it away, but it was no longer there. "Come down," the man called. "I won't hurt you."

He cautiously descended the front steps, feeling a strange sense of weightlessness come over him, as if he were floating through the air, flowing down each stone step like rainwater, swirling and joining the roaring current until it reached the sea, never stopping, never ceasing. He blinked, and the feeling subsided, though he could still feel it not-quite-there in a corner of his mind, settling over the crumbled buildings and ruined church and lifting the haze from the smoky air.

The man had seemed short from a distance, but the boy was surprised to find that he was actually considerably taller than he'd looked, though perhaps any man of normal height was tall to a small child. The contraption over his eyes made clicking noises that he could only imagine were its inner gears as the man focused his gaze on him.

They stood there for a minute like that. The man's companion was silent, a mass of black coat and indistinguishable features in the shadows.

"How old are you?" 

"I don't know," he replied truthfully, surprising himself as he did so, trying not to stare at the man's eyes. He didn't know why he had replied at all. The rushing feeling was still there, pounding against his skull. He felt dizzy.

"I see." There was another silence. '"Do you live here?"

He gave the man a hard stare, but it seemed to be a straightforward question. He opened his mouth to ask why he would even want to know, to ask who the man was and how he could believe he wasn't a spy for some rival cartel.

"Yes," he said instead. Then blinked.

He expected the man to laugh, but he didn't. Instead, he said gravely, "You seem strong."

Not _you seem strong for your age_ or _you seem strong for such a young child_. But simple, straightforward, man to man.

"What's it to you?" he shot back, uncomfortable with the questions and the pressure in his chest that was his heart beating fast and the pressing feeling in his mind. "Who are you?"

The man did laugh at this, but it wasn't a condescending laugh like the cartel members who gave him his orders, or a nasty laugh like the street children who made their home in the alleyway by the abandoned factory, or a drunk laugh like the ones he'd hear out of bars at night. It was more understanding than anything else, and for a second he could do nothing more than to stare openmouthed at the man's face, strange glasses and all, hoping that he would laugh like that again.

"I work for…an organization around here," the man said at last. "I was actually on my way home when I spotted you."

"I was hiding," he said defensively. "How'd you see me?"

In answer, the man pointed to the contraption around his eyes, which gave another whir. "I can see things with these that most cannot," he said softly. "They led me to you. I wonder…?" He trailed off and glanced at his companion, who said nothing. Sighing, he turned back to the boy, regarding him silently.

The sun had nearly set now but he thought he could see a golden light growing from a distance, creeping little by little towards him. He blinked, but it was still there, growing steadily brighter, forming around the head of the man in front of him like a halo of fire and sunlight. He gasped, taking two unsteady steps backwards, tripped over something and lost his balance.

He felt a hand helping him up, and he blinked rapidly several more times as he regained his footing, looking up at his savior. The light was gone, but he could still see the echoes of it in his vision, bright blank spots that wouldn't go away no matter how hard he blinked. He pushed the man's hands away, standing unsteadily and feeling the comfortable presence of the knife in his boot, knowing for some reason that everything that he had ever thought was true was about to change tonight.

"Are you God?" he whispered fearfully.

There was a long pause while the night stretched long into the infinity of space beyond.

"No," the man replied at last, and he heard a small chuckle escape. "No, I'm not God. I'm…just a messenger."

And the dam broke and he felt himself floating away and knew that whatever was beginning now had taken him and borne him away in the tides, and there was no going back.

"I'm coming with you," he said. As though it had been asked, as though this meeting was at once the starting point and the culmination of a long journey.

There was no surprise in the man's voice, no question of how or what. He saw the bearded face nod, saw the white hair ripple in the rank breeze that carried with it the scent of garbage and of rotting things from somewhere close by. "I thought you would," said the man.

"I…" he said, then not quite knowing what else to say, stopped. "My name is Zero," he said at last. "It's not my real name, but I don't remember what my real name is. And everyone needs a name, I suppose." Not knowing why he did so, he held out one grimy hand.

The man regarded him again for another grave second before suddenly sinking to his knees on the filthy ground, reaching out his hand and grasping the small one firmly in his. His grip was strong, solid, a promise of something.

"I'm pleased to meet you, Zero," he said. "My name is Doctor J."

  


* * *

  
**Scene IV: Messiahs He Never Knew**

  


_"A butterfly that flaps its wings  
Affecting almost everything."  
-- Red Hot Chili Peppers, Savior_

  
Duo had never thought much about Treize Khushrenada, when given a choice.

He was more of a battlefield soldier, at least so he liked to believe. Go barreling in with Deathscythe and kill the bastards. At least, that's what he told himself. He let himself be convinced that he really was the cocky, somewhat bubble-brained L2 terrorist some people would have liked him to be, a brainless destroyer who laughed as he killed because he was insane. People liked to put things into boxes, Duo had learned, and they always twisted things around so they fits into their existing conceptions. Duo was a terrorist; therefore he had to be a radical fanatic who only thought of killing because he was told to. Someone higher up did his thinking for him; he was the sacrificial lamb, a child playing at being a man.

The truth was, he thought long and hard on the war he was fighting, and considered the ramifications of his actions. Duo wasn't an idiot; far from it. An idiot couldn't fly a Gundam; the powerful machines required brains and instincts, reflexes and strength, and a certain something that no one really understood. People able to fly those amazing creations were few and far between, and Duo was one of them.

He wondered how he was one of those legendary beings, at times, especially after meeting Quatre and Heero early in the war. Two people that were more different he couldn't imagine, yet there was something about them that made them that was dreadfully similar. A look in the eye, a terrible knowledge of destiny and fate. _I am one of the chosen…. I have fate's hand upon me_, their faces seemed to say. When he met Trowa and Wufei, they shared it, and he wondered if that was part of the pilot's curse- that knowledge inside.

_I can't be one of them_, he thought repeatedly, but then he'd catch sight of his reflection in the mirror or in Deathscythe's shining armor, and his blue violet eyes seemed to carry the same message. It was like there was a hidden power within him that he didn't understand, but kept him going. He needed that, especially after being separated from the others at the moonbase. He had his new Deathscythe, but aside from that, he was alone in the universe… and back on L2. L2 held many memories for him, and very few of them ended happily.

It was night out, the perfectly timed eight hours of darkness the colonies experienced from 10 p.m. to 6 a.m. Duo had thought the odd rhythm of the sun strange when he had been on Earth, but he had enjoyed it. There was nothing artificial about it, and now that he had returned to space, he felt just a bit disillusioned with that aspect of colony life. He loved being on the colony, certainly, but the very lack of spontaneity did grate a bit on his nerves.

He wondered where the other pilots were, now that they were scattered. He hadn't stopped fighting, but he hadn't heard any world that the others were still in space. He was free to work without G's instructions, but it was frightening. He had no clue what to do or where to go.

Duo swung his duffel bag a bit as he walked through the streets, a bad which contained all his worldly possessions, except Deathscythe. He knew he had the resources to get money if he needed it, but right now he was alone, a frightening thought. If there was one thing he hated, it was being alone.

"Hello, stranger," a soft voice called, and he swung around, expecting one of the streetwalkers to be offering him some quality time. He wasn't into that scene, but usually the girls knew more about what was going on than most, and she might be able to give him a some idea where a good place to flop might be. He didn't think C-Side would be a safe since most people would sell their own mothers for ten credits, and the rest of the colony was unfamiliar to him.

"Yo, jouchan!" he said, and he smiled charmingly, preparing to wheedle out some information. "I was -" His jaw dropped as he moved close enough to see who it was. "Hilde!"

The shorthaired girl was leaning against a wall, smiling at him with amusement. "Hey," she said. Her smile was a bit teasing and her dark clothing blended well into the lower middle class neighborhood they were in. "I'd say it was a surprise, but I was actually out looking for you. You're a popular person right now," she informed him, holding up a wanted poster.

He blinked as he took it from her. "I'm getting a sense of déjà vu here… well, least it's a better picture!" he told her cheerfully.

Hilde rolled her eyes at the way he shrugged it off. "You've got Oz and the Federation after you, as well as some of the colonies' forces. You need to get under, and quick!" she said. 

"I was getting to it," he said a bit defensively. "It's a bit hard to hide in my usual haunts right now, so I'm trying to find somewhere else…"

"This neighborhood is residential. You're not going to find anyplace without going to a realty agent," Hilde said. "You need to go to a commercial district where there's some hotels," she informed him a bit sharply.

"I knew that!" Duo replied defensively, glancing around at the locale, realizing that she was right. "Um, Hilde? Not to be rude or anything, but what are you doing out here?"

"If I was being melodramatic, I'd say something about fate drawing the two of us together. Actually, one of my employees saw you and let me know you were in the area. I just wandered around and luck was on my side."

"Your… employees?" he asked. His eyes traced her worn blue coverall, and he wondered if she was with one of the cartels. He sure as hell couldn't think of any other explanation for her having employees that would be able to follow him. _Besides, wasn't she supposed to be in trouble with Oz? That takes a lot of pull to get out of…_

Hilde held up her hands, and he noticed that they were covered with oilstains. "Run a junkyard. It's a pretty lucrative business right now, what with all the mobile suit debris we're getting sent." She coughed a bit. "My aunt abandoned the place, but it's only taken me a couple of weeks to drag the books out of the red. I employ five people… you just happened to walk right by one, and he had the brains to know I'd be interested." She moved even closer so she was standing two feet away and glaring up at him a bit challengingly.

"Didn't I get you in enough trouble already?" Duo asked, starting to feel the stirrings of hope through his confusion. _Maybe…_

"Hell yes!" she spat. "You managed to take my nice secure principles and shake them to the core! After meeting you, I didn't know which way was up!" 

He wasn't able to contain a smirk, and that was a mistake. Duo had forgotten she was a soldier. She was so much smaller than he was, but that didn't make her weak.

Hilde's fist launch at him, squarely launching on his chin. He went reeling backwards from the blow in shock before regaining his balance a second later. He hadn't sensed any threat from her, and had let his guard down…something a pilot never did.

_Great going, Duo_, he thought. _A pair of pretty eyes is going to be your downfall. Well, act now!_

His training kicked in, and he threw his duffel in her face, using the instant she had to take to deflect it to draw his gun. He targeted her heart, not wanted to destroy her face. _Call me sentimental_, he thought with a bit of an inward chuckle at himself. "I thought you finally understood!" he declared.

"I did!" she shot back. "The colonies I'm fighting to protect cannot be protected through Oz!"

He was thoroughly confused and starting to think she didn't mean him any serious harm, but didn't put the gun up. She had caught him off guard once already, and no one got the drop on Duo Maxwell twice. 

Hilde's eyes were flashing and she seemed undaunted at having a weapon aimed at her by one of the most wanted men in known space. 

"Why did you attack me?" he asked in a level voice, one which he tended to use right before blowing someone's brains out. 

"I'm not mad at you about THAT!" she declared, and the defiance in the set of her head fascinated him. 

_If all colonists were as proud as she was, then Oz would have no foothold,_ he realized.

"I'm mad at you because you were smirking at me!" she announced, folding her arms under her breasts. "No one likes to be laughed at!"

"Um…" he said, and then he did something he hasn't done in years. He blushed, and hoped that the darkness would hide it.

"I had to plead mental instability to get away from Oz," she told him. "I wouldn't have, but there was no way I could do anything from inside a prison. Being a martyr for a cause is well and good, but it unknown martyrs accomplish nothing, and the colonies can't lose anyone who love them right now," she explained softly before regaining her steam. "Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that people have seen you. You need to go under, and go quick!" she said, repeating her earlier message, turning and stalking off into the night.

He watched her retreat, and the germ of an idea that had been growing since first seeing her took deep root. It would be dangerous, but it would be the best chance he'd have of not falling out of the fight. He needed supplies to keep Shinigami running, and that would cost money… the kind of money that he couldn't get without fencing the spoils of his inevitable victories.

And he knew just the girl to fence them.

The next day when Hilde came home, she was surprised to see Duo Maxwell on her couch, sprawled out across the entire length, looking like he belonged there. She moved over to shake him awake and demand and explanation, but something in her hesitated. She left him alone and went to make dinner. Answers she could get later.

Duo slept on, only to be awakened by the smell of cooking. He opened sleepy eyes, feeling the unaccustomed sensation of actually having enough rest. It was odd to sleep for more than three or four hours at a go, and pleasant. He could get used to it.

"Wash up for supper," Hilde called from the kitchen. "I'm making hamburgers," she told him. "You get to do the dishes. Schbeiker family rule: the person who cooks doesn't have to do the clean-up."

He nodded, seeing the inherent fairness in that, and wandered over to the bathroom to clean up. He'd taken a shower on arrival, relieved to wash the grunge of days away, knowing that even if Hilde threw him out, he'd at least be cleaner for the stop. When he returned, Hilde was setting out the burgers next to salads, and he nodded. "Thanks."

"You're welcome," she said neutrally, sliding into the chair across from him. "Do you say grace?" she asked, her eyes falling to the cross.

"I'll sit through it, if you want, but I'm not particularly religious," he answered, and politely kept from digging in. Some people were picky about eating before offering thanks.

"No, no… just trying to be respectful of your faith," Hilde said hastily, averting her gaze from the priest's collar he was wearing. She picked up her hamburger and bit down without adding any condiments.

Duo started adding ketchup with glee. He loved the stuff. Hilde watched him with hooded eyes as she ate, before setting her food down to run a hand through her slightly too-long bangs, which just fell right back into her eyes. "Duo… were you born to be this exasperating, or did you learn how?"

"Huh?" He picked up his food and started to munch on it, and was well-satisfied with the Hilde's culinary skills. It was true that making a burger wasn't particularly difficult, but Hilde had added lettuce and tomatoes and onions… He started to space out in happy food dreams, though he kept half his attention on her. The bruise that was starting to turn a deep purple on his jaw was a good reminder that she wasn't just a pretty face. 

She blinked a bit, and then seemed to come to a decision. "Nothing. I'm assuming that you're going to bring in some salvage for me in a few days?" she asked.

He met her eyes, and suddenly he realized that she did understand. "Sure. Gotta earn my keep somehow! I don't suppose you know where I could… recover some prime material, do you?" 

Hilde rose, and Duo watched her vanish into the living room. A moment later she was back with a laptop. "I have a map of L2 space on this baby. I can suggest a few areas where some Oz suits might be, though you might have to do some serious recovery work to get them to me," she said. 

He finished off his food, pushing the plate aside. "Hilde, now's the chance to turn back," he said, feeling compelled to warn her.

"I may not wear a uniform anymore, but I'm still a soldier," she said firmly. She opened the screen and started entering her access information. "I'll fight the war in my own way."

Duo murmured something encouraging, and leaned over as the map appeared. She was right: they were still at war, and no way was Shinigami going to miss the battle. He knew that something big was brewing, and though he might be on the sidelines for now, he understood that he had to be ready for when the storm broke. He would be needed then.

And right now, he needed to use every resource at his disposal, especially one girl who'd given up her career for her colonies… all because of him. If he wasn't careful, he'd get her killed. He casually placed his hand on her shoulder, wishing that he could protect her. Hilde was a grown woman, though, and she knew the risks. Like him, she would fight for what she believed.

It still didn't make it any easier to sleep that night.

Hilde had retrieved a pile of blankets for him, and he was snuggled up in them, but even the warm milk she had given him (a luxury that attested to how well her business was doing) didn't help him settle down. He had the opportunity to walk away, with no one the wiser, and he was again waiting to go headfirst into the furnace. He really was nuts, and he'd get the people around him killed.

He wanted to protect the colonies.

That was his goal. He wanted to make sure no one else had to face Oz, or know what real death was. He was a pilot, fighting against impossible odds, because he believed. He believed that through the death and the darkness, someone would show the way. He believed that the leadership of the other side was corrupt, and in their own greed, they would fall. They would feed upon each other, until only the most vile remained… and then he and the others would kill them. He remembered hearing of General Septum's death, and he had secretly rejoiced, knowing the man had gotten what was coming to him. Dr. G's files on him had been most explicit.

Noventa… well, that had been a tragedy, but sometimes good people died. Une would probably end up getting killed in battle, and Zechs… well, Duo wouldn't mind taking Zechs out himself. He really thought it was a race, to see who managed to kill the Lightning Baron first; that or be killed by him. It would be an exciting battle, one worth watching, and definitely worth fighting.

He never really factored in Treize Khushrenada, for Treize was outside of his realm.

He thought about war and dying, he didn't really think about Treize… because Treize wasn't his objective. Duo was simply there to protect the colonies, and that meant fighting against those members of Oz who were corrupt. Treize wasn't corrupt. Treize was outside of Duo's understanding; Treize was a part of some grand scheme that Duo couldn't compete with. Treize was Heero's opposite, not Duo's.

Duo didn't believe in God - God had died with Solo, and all hope of resurrections had flown when Sister Helen and Father Maxwell had been destroyed by Oz. But he believed in messiahs… after all, a messiah was a liberator, one who would save mankind from itself. Treize had announced himself, but Heero's actions proclaimed him.

It was an odd feeling to know that. The few times he turned his thoughts towards Treize, they automatically wandered towards Heero. Heero and Treize would someday fight, Duo believed. They were darkness and light, and one of them would have to die for the universe to continue. They could not both exist on the Earth, for their very existences were anathema to the other.

The question was, which messiah would win? In the end, only one could exist…

  
Act 0 Part II | Back to Sainan no Kekka 


	3. Treize Khushrenada : The Creator of Hist...

_Gundam Wing is property of Sotsu Agency, Bandai Studios, and TV Asahi. Sainan no Kekka and all original characters and plot copyright 2000-2003 by Quicksilver and Gerald Tarrant. Please ask permission before reposting._

  
**SHIN KIDOU SENKI GUNDAM WING**

SAINAN NO KEKKA  
ACT ZERO, PART II

** Arasoiau dake ja  
Erarenai daremo nanimo  
Osanai te ni sashinobetai  
Kegare no nai tokimeki o**

Odayaka ni toki o  
Kizamu komorebi no nukumori  
Daremo ga idakaretai  
Zutto kitto eien ni  
** Strife alone  
Can never achieve for anyone or anything  
This pure excitement I want to give  
To young hands**

The warmth of the sun shining through the leaves  
Calmly marks the passage of time  
This is what we want to hold on to  
It is surely forever  


**--Gundam Wing, _Last Impression_  
[Endless Waltz]**  


  
  
**Scene V: The Night the Sky Fell Down**

  


_"Did the wind hit you in the eye?  
Or were you just about to cry?  
All the stars are shaped like tears."  
-- Walkabouts, Desert Skies_

  
Sylvia Noventa remembered exactly where she had been when she heard the news. It was a beautiful, lovely winter afternoon and she'd been at her stepfather's estate just outside Valencia, Spain, curled up on a window seat, reading. The curtains were white and gauzy, matching the white wicker furniture of the dayroom, and the open window itself overlooked the pastoral fields of La Huerta, the green belt surrounding the distant city. When she'd look up every so often to rest her eyes, she'd glance up at the blue, blue sky as the afternoon slowly waned into evening and the cloudbanks built up along the horizon and wonder what was happening in space out there, so far away.

Because it did seem so far away. There was a war going on out there, one that would, according to her cynical stepfather, "prove the death of us," and according to her optimistic mother, "pave the way for a new era." The last she'd heard when she had listened to the news this morning, the fierce battle had been going on for hours now, Gundam against Gundam, with Treize Khushrenada in the middle of the fray.

Treize Khushrenada had ultimately been responsible for her grandfather's death. No matter what anyone might say, it had been Treize. And yet she couldn't find it in her to condemn him. All of them - her grandfather, Treize, Heero Yuy and the rest of the Gundam pilots - had been only fighting for what they thought was right. And did it matter? What was right and what was wrong? Either way, people died.

She'd tried again and again to strain her eyes, to catch some glimpse of the catastrophic conflict that the reporters had sworn was going on at this very instant, but all she could see, no matter how hard she tried, were clouds. Clouds and birds, and the last pinkish-purplish tinge of the sunlight that signaled the near end of evening and the beginning of the night.

Running footsteps along the corridor alerted her to the presence of one of the maids, and Sylvia had slipped the bookmark between the pages of her current pick and swung her legs over the side of the seat so that wouldn't appear she had been lying down. Lying down in a window seat, according to her mother, was un-lady-like and very unbecoming, especially from someone of Sylvia's rank. The wind rustled the curtains and ruffled her hair, and she smoothed the unruly blond locks down, looking over her shoulder at the sky. It was almost black now, but she could not see the stars.

Strange.

When the maid finally burst through the delicate wooden doors of the room, she rose gracefully to her feet, and then did a double-take at the tears streaming down the girl's cheeks. The maid couldn't have more than eleven, Sylvia realized - only a few years younger than her. She raised one hand, trying to think of something calming and soothing to say, but the girl flinched as if she had been slapped.

"Lady Sylvia," she gasped, sobbing. "His grace…desires to…see…"

Sylvia tried to insert a few questions, comforting remarks, anything between the maid's sobs, but finally gave up and made do by putting a brief arm around the girl's shoulders, causing her to look up, startled. Sylvia smiled. 

"Let's go together. I doubt it is as terrible as you fear it to be."

The maid started to say something, but clamped her lips shut. Sylvia's curiosity meter rose another few notches, and she picked up her pace, turning the familiar corners towards her stepfather's study with an urgency in her step. It was odd, really, that as many times as she'd been summoned to see her stepfather, whether it be for matters concerning her newest tutor or just to talk about politics and goings-on in the world, that he'd never once treated her as his daughter, nor even a child. She was only thirteen after all, and no prodigy. While Treize Khushrenada and Lucrezia Noin had been out of the OZ Academy at thirteen and already changing the world, she, Sylvia Noventa, was living the predestined life of an aristocratic daughter, her perfect world shattered only by her grandfather's death half a year earlier. Her father had died when she was a year old, and her grandfather had been the male role model in her life.

But her stepfather always addressed her as an adult, even though most often she understood little to nothing of what he was saying when he mentioned various politicians' names or the games that they would play. Politics was not her game and she didn't think it ever would be - too full of manipulation and scheming all for the gain of personal benefit. It was dirty, and she told her stepfather this once. He had sighed and replied that life was a dirty business, and hopefully that out of all of it, there would come some men and women who would emerge from the dirty games with some vision of how to make the world a better place.

Sylvia didn't know if she believed that. Dirty was as dirty does, as her mother said, and politics was politics, war was war, and two wrongs did not make a right. She supposed she was naïve, but her stepfather had never called her that.

She wondered sometimes if he thought her one of the men and women who would make the world a better place. She didn't know if that thought flattered her or frightened her half to death. Certainly, if her grandfather hadn't died, she would have never thought of taking it seriously.

As long as she lived, she knew she would never forget the image of Heero Yuy handing her that gun, asking her to kill him, and she knowing that he had done so not because he thought she was a vengeful, grief-stricken girl who wanted to kill her grandfather's murderer, but because he thought, like her stepfather, that she had the power to change the world.

She didn't want anyone, and most certainly not her stepfather, to think of her as someone who would change the world. She just wanted a father. She just wanted to be an ordinary girl.

"Lady Sylvia to see you, your grace," the maid said, her voice wobbling, and Sylvia gave her another brief pat on the shoulder before easing open the wooden study door and dropping a curtsey as the figure behind the desk put down his newspaper and stood up. Her eyes went instinctively to the window behind him, which was open also, looking out on the dark night sky. Something struck her as odd before she realized that she still could not see the stars. 

The wind blowing through the window was warm and muggy, and she shivered.

"Sylvia. I'm glad you've come."

Something in her stepfather's voice made her look up, and she frowned at the grave expression on his chiseled face. Duke Fernando de Llordes was never serious, known for the twinkle in his eye and the sense of humor that had made Sylvia's mother, twelve years widowed, fall in love with him three years ago. He had never been a truly handsome man, but there was something about the way he carried himself that gave him the air of a king. He was a kind man and a generous one, and though he was something more than a mentor, he'd never tried to take a parent's place in her life. She'd asked her mother about it once, and she'd responded soothingly that Duke Fernando didn't want to take her grandfather's place. That he knew he wasn't her father, and he did not presume to act as one.

But her grandfather was dead now, and still her stepfather remained something more than a mentor but less than a father.

"Sylvia, the war is over."

For a moment, she gaped at him, wondering if he'd lost his mind, then realized that he hadn't sounded happy in the least about the news. "What do you mean, the war is over…? It can't be over…you're joking."

"Sylvia, have you wondered why there are no stars tonight?"

She blinked. "I…"

He smiled sadly at her and reached over to flip on the old radio sitting behind him on the bookshelf. There were no vidscreens in Duke Fernando's study, none of the latest technology. He preferred antiques, claiming they made him feel closer to the past.

"-going to fall!" a voice shrieked from the radio, and Sylvia jumped, startled at the volume before her stepfather turned it down. "It's changing course…it's breaking away….!"

"What? What's going to fall?" she demanded, moving nearer to the desk and placing her hands on its smooth, mahogany surface.

"The Libra," her stepfather said, strangely calm, "is falling to Earth."

"The Libra…the ship?" she breathed incredulously. "No!"

"Yes."

"I…" she floundered, her eyes going to the cup of hot tea steaming on the corner of the desk, and realizing exactly why the little maid had been crying. She must have been serving the tea as the duke listened to the radio, heard the news…"Are we going to die?"

Her stepfather turned a gentle glance towards her. "Most likely. Does it matter?"

"What are you talking about?"

"My dear, Treize Khushrenada is dead."

The world stopped spinning for a moment, and through her daze, she realized that was the first time he'd addressed her with any kind of affectionate term. If his words had been anything else, she would have stopped him then and there, but there was no time.

"Dead? What - how - why…"

The duke shook his head. "It's a battle, Sylvia. People die in battle…but I believe he never thought he would die at the glorious conclusion of his own victory dance." He chuckled quietly. "Fate is strange, isn't it? Yes, Khushrenada is dead…but the rest of the world will soon follow. I suppose one sacrifice wasn't enough."

"Did he die aboard the Libra? Is that why it's falling?"

He shook his head. "One of the Gundams killed him, apparently. The Libra…no, that's none of his doing. Milliard Peacecraft apparently thinks it is his noble duty to sacrifice the rest of humankind along with his former mentor. The smoke and debris from the falling ship has entered the atmosphere, which is why there are no stars. There will probably never be stars again after this night, for a long time."

"We won't be here when they finally do shine again, will we?"

His look was unreadable. "No. We will not."

Sylvia drew a deep breath, looking out the window to the night sky, straining now to see not signs of battle, but for the burning husk of a ship, falling through the atmosphere, flaming like a giant star. But yet again, there was nothing. If not for the announcer screaming softly on the radio in the background, she could dismiss it all as a dream.

"I'm not ready to die," she said quietly.

"Are we ever?" her stepfather replied. "The end of an era. Perhaps your mother was right. Too right."

"Don't talk about Mamá like that!" she snapped, then instantly regretted her words. "I'm sorry. I…"

He shook his head again. "I understand. I am sorry." He favored her with another quick glance, a smile. "You know, Sylvia…"

"I see something," she said breathlessly, breaking her hold on the desk to run to the window and look. "Look! Look!"

Through the black sky, through the starless night, something was falling, something huge and reddish on the edges, with blue smoke and flashes of white trailing from its edges. She strained upwards, trying to catch a better glimpse, fascinated and nauseated all at once, and for the first time she saw the moon, washed a sickly pale yellow, pulsing faintly as if it were pumping out its last few heartbeats. Perhaps it was.

"It's falling through the atmosphere now!" the panicked announcer shrieked. "It's moving towards Europe…Spain! It's on a collision course with Spain! The mobile suits are withdrawing from its trajectory…oh! Too close! One of the Federation mobile suits has smashed into Libra's side! OH! The Eypon Gundam has gone inside…followed by one of the other Gundams! Can it be? Yes! Wing Zero has followed Eypon inside! Battle to the death!"

Sylvia looked up at her stepfather, who had moved from his chair to join her at the window, and saw the certainty mirrored in his eyes.

"You know," she said, "I always thought I would die alone."

"Serious thoughts for a thirteen-year-old girl," he said, squeezing her shoulder slightly.

"The Peacemillion is moving away from the Libra now, but it might be too late for it to pull out of its gravity field! Oh…there's a Gundam. Two! Three! Four! The Gundams were inside Libra! They're trying to escape also! Will they make it? No sign of Zero or Eypon! They're trapped!"

She could smell burning now in her nostrils, and she knew he smelled it too. His fingers tightened on her shoulder slightly. "I may be thirteen," she said, "but I've had things taught to me that some old women will never understand."

"You had a good teacher then."

She smiled up at him. "Thank you, Papá."

His brow furrowed as he gazed down at her. "You've never called me that before."

She watched the giant red meteor plunge ever-so-slowly, almost sluggishly, towards the earth, and as she opened her mouth, there was an explosion. Huge, red and billowing, spreading and obscuring the pale moon, and she gripped her stepfather's hand, suddenly afraid. 

"HOLY SHIT!" the announcer exclaimed, apparently deciding that if he was going to die, he might as well put out all the expletives he could find on the table. "LIBRA HAS EXPLODED! REPEAT, THE LIBRA HAS EXPLODED! MILLIARD PEACECRAFT AND WING ZERO WERE INSIDE! DID THEY MAKE IT?"

Sylvia drew a deep shuddering breath, unable to tear her eyes away from the blossoming cloud of smoke and fire on the horizon. "Are we safe, Papa? Did he…?"

"OH NO! A PART OF THE LIBRA IS STILL FALLING! WHO CAN SAVE US NOW? WHO CAN-"

The announcer's voice was suddenly cut off and a calmer voice came on after a few seconds. "Attention. The Libra's fall to earth has been checked, but a smaller piece escaped the explosion and is still falling. We urge all who live in Spain, Portugal, France, Great Britain, and anywhere on the Mediterranean to evacuate if you are able. We estimate that the falling part of Libra will land approximately somewhere on the border of Spain and France. Escape to the colonies might be your only option. If you reside elsewhere in the world, make plans to evacuate to a colony as soon as possible."

"The colonies," he murmured. "Can they really save us now? After all that has happened?"

"We're not leaving," Sylvia said.

He gave her a hard smile. "No. Where would we go? The colonies are in chaos. By the time we get off the ground, the Libra will have hit. We have not room to fit all the servants on board the shuttle, and I will not leave them here to die."

"So this is the end," she murmured. "I'm not afraid, Papá."

"You've never called me that before," he said again.

She was silent, trying to find the right words. "Is it all right," she said finally, "if I call you that before we die?"

"I would like that very much," he said softly, and his arms tightened around her shoulders. 

"I thought…well, you never asked. I thought you didn't want a daughter."

"I thought you didn't need a father," he returned, sounding faintly amused, and she laughed, then froze.

"Papá…look!"

Through the cloud of smoke, something was falling - the part of the Libra that had broken free from the explosion and continued its descent. It burned with a brighter fire than the large ship had before, sparking white and gold at the edges, and she watched in horror as it fell, much more swiftly than she could have imagined. The burning smell was acute now, and she wondered how hot the ship actually was to be able to singe the air all the way to Valencia. The smoke was visible in the night sky, roiling plumes of it, spreading outward in faint gray and white streaks from the place where the Libra had exploded.

"I suppose this is the end," he said.

"I suppose so," she murmured back.

There was something molten white at the tip of the falling star, something that seemed out of place but she couldn't figure out why it seemed so. The radio was silent now, and the crackle of static seemed fitting music for a fiery end, though she didn't know if the static was from the silent airwaves or from the magnetism in the air disrupting the signal. The hair on the back of her neck was standing on end, and her whole body tingled. 

"That's no falling meteorite," her stepfather said suddenly. "Look. It's moving ahead of it. Too quickly. It's not part of the ship."

"What?" she said, then realized he was indicating the brilliant white object falling through the sky. "It's not? Then what-"

"It's a Gundam."

"A _Gundam_?"

"There were two Gundams inside the Libra when it exploded," her stepfather said calmly. "Epyon is a black Gundam."

"Wing Zero…" she breathed. _Heero Yuy_…

The flowers on her grandfather's grave.

_The one who killed General Noventa... was me. It was a mistake. I killed General Noventa and a great many people who wished for peace…I can't atone for my sins. I hope this gun calms the souls of those I killed and the anger of their families._

War is just killing people! Why do you think that war is a beautiful thing?

I can't change my way of living.

She hadn't understood Heero's answer at the time, but now she thought she did. Now, she saw the horrible truth he had been living all this time, a knowledge that he could never change himself, that war would always be a part of him, and the knowledge of the need for his own destruction before the world could begin anew.

_You're just a coward! You're making me kill you so you can be free from your guilt!_

Heero Yuy was in that Gundam ahead of the falling Libra, trying to stop it. Trying again to kill himself so the world could be saved.

_Coward! Coward!_

"Coward," she muttered angrily to the falling star. "You coward!"

"Sylvia?" the bewildered voice of her stepfather said, and she burst into tears, flinging herself against him and burying her face in his coat.

"I can't watch!" she cried. "I can't…I can't watch…"

She felt his comforting hands on her hair and that made her cry harder, not wanting to watch as the falling ship overwhelmed the Gundam, not wanting to watch as Heero Yuy finally met the death he'd been searching for and that she had refused to give him.

Because it hadn't mattered in the end, and what she'd done had been in vain.

"Sylvia?"

"No…" she whispered. "No."

"Sylvia, look!" His voice was incredulous. "Look!" And he twisted her around so she was facing the window, looking through her tears.

A beautiful, blinding column of light was streaming from the white figure, piercing the clouds, enveloping the falling star in light, and she shielded her eyes as it prismed through the wetness in her eyes. The sky seemed to shudder, pulsing like the moon had been pulsing as Libra fell through the atmosphere, and then something shattered, and the fragment of starship exploded.

It wasn't a slow, roiling explosion like before, but this was sharp, stinging, like breaking glass erupting and falling through the sky like deadly shards of flowers, more beautiful than any fireworks she'd ever seen in her life. She felt her stepfather's hand gripping hers, and the white light filling the sky, and through it all something twinkled, rising higher and faster through the sky, returning to the blackness of space.

"Heero…" she whispered. "Heero, you…"

"It's over." Her stepfather sounded awestruck. "He did it. It's…over. We're saved."

_Heero. You saved us._

She felt herself crying again, but smiling at the same time, and with a very unladylike shriek, she wrapped her arms around his neck and laughed and cried from happiness.

He was slower to remove her this time, but at last when he did so, she saw that he was smiling. "Sylvia," he said again. "Look."

She turned to look out the window once more, and saw that the sky was streaked with stars, millions of glowing white meteors, all falling gracefully to the earth in a shower of light. She took his hand, holding it like a little girl would hold the hand of a father who has taken her outside to show her the wonders of the night sky for the first time.

"Look, Papa," she said softly. "The stars have come out."

  


* * *

  
**Scene VI: Full Circle to the Empire's Throne**

  


_"Carry on my wayward son.  
There'll be peace when you are done."  
-- Kansas, Carry on My Wayward Son_

  
As Quatre stared at the leather office chair in front of him, the only thing he could think of was that he had come full circle. An ironic smile twisted his lips, but he couldn't make himself take that final step and take the seat.

"Mr. Winner?" A soft voice said.

He turned around, trying not to wince as his half-healed stab wound pulled a bit. His guileless blue eyes focused on the man in front of him, and he forced a smile to his face, knowing that the man cheerfully would see him dead. It was a horrible thing, spending time around someone who disliked you so much, and for reasons which weren't true.

"Yes, Bartlett?" he asked, his own voice polite and melodic. He sounded so young to his own ears; he wondered how he sounded to others. Would he ever be able to command respect, with his quiet ways? His fierce nature on the battlefield had earned him that of the Maguanacs, but he had left them. Now Quatre had another world to face, and it was one he feared even more.

"The changeover is complete," Bartlett murmured to him. Neutral blue eyes so pale that they seemed almost colorless watched the teenager that stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, apparently unsure of which way to go. 

"That's good," Quatre said. He sighed a bit, knowing that it was amazing that his lawyers had managed to get all the legal paperwork squared away to give him complete control over his family's business in less than a week, especially considering how complicated some of those legalities were. "I guess I should get to work, then..."

"It wouldn't be a bad idea," Bartlett said, his voice still level and without emotion.

Quatre ran a hand through hair that had recently been trimmed. The style was just a bit too long to be fashionable, but his fine hair needed the length, according to his image consultant. He wasn't to concern himself with current style, because he was the Winner now. He would be the one setting the styles. The thought gave him the chills. He was powerful, and not just financially. He would set cultural, moral and societal goals for the rest of his life, and it wasn't because he had earned it. It was by accident of birth, and he dreaded having to take his place as the new ruler of the Winner Empire. He was the prince of the colonies, in everything but title.

Still he remained in the middle of the room, unwilling to take the seat his father had held for so long. This had been his father's main base on L4, and Quatre had yet to order it cleaned out. The desk still contained all of Raberba Winner's personal belongings, and his son feared what he would find in its drawers.

"Mr. Winner?" Again Bartlett's voice came, challenging him by its very lack of expression.

Quatre took a deep, calming breath. The man had been his father's personal aide, and perhaps one of his father's closest confidants. He knew the ins and outs of the Winner Group better than almost anyone, and he would be an invaluable asset... If Quatre could win him over. It was a very big if. "I'm going. It's just... Hard. I hadn't expected to become the head of the corporation so young." He forced his feet to move, and after taking the first step towards that imposing chair, the others followed more easily.

"None of us expected him to die," Bartlett said. "He was a great man, and he could have done much to lead this new era."

The blonde heard the unspoken accusation, the implication that he was not his father's son, that he would falter and fail. He had run away from home when he was thirteen, and then run away again a year and a half later to join the war, though Bartlett didn't know that. As far as Bartlett and most of the world knew, Quatre had been rebelling against his father. The brief moments he had been home during the war had been right before Raberba's death, and then Quatre hadn't mourned him properly, according to many. It was a major PR scandal. 

Quatre preferred that others thought of him that way. He didn't want them to know the truth; it would make life so much more difficult. He had fought for what he believed in, put his life on the life. He wasn't ashamed of that, but now that peace had come, it was time for him and his fellow soldiers to integrate back into society. A pilot would never be welcome, should his identity be known.

"He's the past, though, Bartlett," Quatre whispered. He looked over to the chair hesitantly, then walked around the heavy crystal and mahogany desk, an imported luxury that cost more than it cost to feed the average colonial family for a year. Quatre remembered when the Sheik of Arabia had given it to his father in gratitude for expediting some business deal or other. His father had loved it, saying that it was too extravagant, but sometimes extravagance could be excused for the sake of beauty. He ran his hand along the top of the desk as he continued his journey to the take his father's place. "It's those who survive, you and I, who have to carry on his legacy... Inadequate though we may be."

The chair behind the desk made for power, in stark contrast to the opulence before it. It had a high back and was made of leather, and was imposing. It would be comfortable, but something about it drew the eye and commanded respect. It was subtle, but those small gestures were the power plays that his father had taught him to understand and take advantage of. When he had been little, he had sat in it once, picturing what it would be like to command the massive business empire.

He'd never dreamed it happen so soon - or so tragically. He'd never wanted it. If his life had been his own to choose, he would have chosen music. He loved that, not the shady world of business where friends were built by fiscal value, and enemies hid themselves behind smiles. 

Still, he needed to take his place. Steeling himself, he sat, feeling the broken in leather of his father's. When he sat back, he laughed a bit as his feet dangled about an inch off the floor. 

It was so symbolic. He had so much growing left to do.

"I'll have someone adjust that for you, sir," Bartlett volunteered. 

Quatre rested his hands on the chair. He stared down at his feet, reminded of his petite stature. All of the pilots had been on the small side, but when they had parted company, Trowa had been well into a growth spurt, Duo had gained a couple of inches on him, and Heero and Wufei also had been at least two inches taller than he was, even considering their Asian heritage. It seemed he was doomed to always be the smallest one around, and always underestimated because of it. "No. Leave it... I need to remember that I have a long way to go," Quatre stated, making up his mind. 

For the first time, a hint of emotion sparked in Bartlett's eyes. Approval? Quatre wondered. He hoped so. He really wanted to win acceptance from the older man. "I'll see about getting a footrest brought it. It's not good for your circulation to leave your feet unsupported."

He gave a shy smile, the one so many people found so enchanting. "Thanks. I'd appreciate it."

"There's some rather urgent business you need to address. The soldiers who are coming back from the war have started to apply for positions in the Winner Group," Bartlett said.

Quatre tilted his head. "Is there a problem with that?" he asked curiously.

"They would disrupt employee moral. Our company has always supported pacifism, and many of our employees chose to work for us because of that. If we start hiring ex-soldiers, we're going to create disharmony."

"It will. But are they qualified?"

"Sometimes," Bartlett admitted grudgingly.

Quatre leaned back, and looked at his father's desk. It was spotless, for Raberba had always cleared all his paperwork at the end of each business day. The only thing on it was a picture of Reeshya, his youngest daughter. Reeshya was the only one of his children who had always stayed with him, and he had loved her best for it. Her delicate features were as Arabic as his were not; sometimes he wondered if that was part of what had been wrong with him. She would not approve of hiring former soldiers, either.

"If they're the best people for the job, we should hire them," Quatre replied. He shifted a bit, knowing he was about to declare war on everything Bartlett stood for.

"Your father would not approve."

"I am not my father..." Quatre said firmly. "I make up my own mind. And... I think he would understand." He wished fervently that he could be sure he was speaking the truth. "The war is over; it's time to help bring about peace, and by isolating those who fought, we're merely perpetuating that vicious cycle. A soldier needs to learn what peace is... And to do so, he must be taught." 

"There... May be some truth to that," Bartlett admitted reluctantly.

"What does a soldier become, after the war is done?" Quatre asked. "He becomes a son, a husband, a father again..." Quatre said, and he rose to his feet, having to take an awkward step to bridge the gap the too-large chair gave him. "We need to remind people of that. By discriminating in our hiring practices, we remind people of the differences between us. It's time to remind people that we all are inherently the same."

Bartlett watched as the teenager walked over to the window that overlooked the Earth. The view was breathtaking, but Quatre wasn't looking at it. Instead, his eyes were searching for the debris that it would take generations to completely sweep clean. "There's so much hatred between people. There's so much we don't understand... And we never try. I don't want to become rigid. I don't want people to look at me and see only my last name, but they will. I don't want..."

"What do you want?" Bartlett asked.

"I wanted the peace we have. I wanted to be someone who stood up for what he believed in. And I did that - and it cost me my father. I'll never be able to make my peace with him, Bartlett."

The aide leaned forward. "Make your peace by being what he wanted you to be. If you take his legacy to you, then you'll make him proud."

"I can't." Quatre pressed his hand against the thick glass, as though he could touch the stars he had once flown through. "He wanted me to be strong and stand up for my beliefs, but he wanted me to believe the same thing he did. I don't... So how do I reconcile those two messages?"

Bartlett was silent. "Your father knew what was best. He... We'll never see his like again."

"No. But there's more than one of thinking, and more than one truth." Again the stars beckoned to Quatre, and he forced himself to turn away, knowing that he was about to forever abandon the dreams they represented to take on a more practical role, the one that had been laid out for his entire life. "I think we should hire some specialists, see about creating some classes for reintegrating soldiers. Maybe... That can be one of the things the Winner Group can do towards creating the peace."

Bartlett pulled out a notebook from seemingly nowhere and started to take notes. "And counselors? I think one of your sisters has a psychological degree..."

Quatre nodded. "Probably. One of my sisters does everything. If Bashira is willing to sign on as a consultant, that would be wonderful."

"She will. She knows her family loyalties." Unspoken was the implication that Quatre did not.

"I-" Quatre began, but whether it was to defend himself or agree, he'd never know, for the door opened, and one of his sisters, perhaps one of the most important, walked in. Her silver bracelets chimed like bells as she moved into the room, her swaying footsteps oddly hypnotic. "Jaffa..." he whispered.

Bartlett bowed to the woman with genuine respect in his eyes. "It's been a while, ma'am," he said. 

Quatre had the impression she smiled, but there was no way to be sure. She was wearing a face veil, which did a masterful job of concealing what she was thinking. Jaffa's veils were usually opaque, but today she had worn one made of black silk. Without extending his _uchuu no kokoro_, he would have no hint of her emotional state; if he did, she would know. He wasn't the only sibling who had that special ability to feel what others did, and they always knew when someone else was "listening in."

"I've been putting out the family fires, and Saffir just had another child. I had to be there, of course," she was saying to Bartlett as Quatre's thoughts wandered.

Quatre watched his sister, wondering how she managed. Jaffa wasn't the smartest, prettiest, oldest or most talented. She simply was Jaffa, and that was enough. All of the family respected her, and he wondered if she realized that she was the one link that held them together, now that their father was dead. "It's been a while, neesan," he said, using the Japanese phrase. The colonies had been Japanese to begin with, and all colonists, even the stubbornly Arabic Winners, had found Japanese culture encroaching on their own.

She nodded, and her dark gaze slid to Bartlett. "If you would excuse us?" she asked. "It's been far too long since I've talked to my younger brother."

Bartlett gave her a slight smile. "Anything for you," he told her, and the sincerity in his voice couldn't be manufactured. From the way his eyes flickered over Quatre, if was clear that he was anticipating Jaffa chewing him out, ever so politely. Jaffa was known for dragging her siblings back into line, and making them come back into the family fold. He'd delight in any embarrassment Quatre would suffer at her hands.

The two siblings watched as the older man left. "He doesn't like me," Quatre murmured. "And I don't know how to fix it."

"I don't know that you can," Jaffa informed him. "He has reason not to like you. You didn't even stay for father's funeral."

"I wasn't well enough." It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her of Zero, of his nightmarish rampage against the colonies he had sworn to protect, but he held back. She wouldn't understand. Jaffa was a very black and white person, and he had crossed the line then, and become a serious shade of gray.

She pulled back the veil from her face, something she only did when she was alone with family. It wasn't out of modesty that she wore it, Quatre knew. She wore it as a banner of her personality, a sign that she was tied tightly to her heritage. "Quatre... Let us have no secrets," she said. "Not even father could keep his sorrow a secret from me." She walked closer to him, and her eyes ran over him. "You're beautiful," she murmured. "You look very like your mother."

Quatre turned his eyes away, not wanting to think of the genetic manipulation that had resulting in his creation. "Boys aren't beautiful," he said instead.

Jaffa laughed, a melodic sound that echoed through the room. "Usually not. But how does one define beauty? Physically?" she said, and she touched his alabaster cheek, so different from the deep mocha of her own skin. "Mentally? Spiritually? Or through the heart?" she asked, and then she reached out and wrapped her arms around him.

It was the first time anyone had hugged him since Iria had died. He stiffened, then his hands almost automatically crept up Jaffa's back before he buried his face in the nape of her neck, wanting to hide away there forever. The herbal shampoo she used smelled the same as it had since his childhood, when she had been there to solve life's problems. Now he was tall enough to look her in the eye, and he could see the fine lines of age starting to form on her face. He clung to her, knowing that in a few moments, he would have to be strong again.

"It's been hard for you, hasn't it?" Jaffa asked. "You made some difficult choices, and I must admit I don't understand them. But you've grown beautiful for it, and are definitely worthy of being father's heir," she pronounced, pushing away slightly so she could talk to him more easily. "The strength in you is amazing. I feel it, an I know that you shine with a light that must blinds lesser men."

"I don't want to be here, Jaffa," he confessed. "I didn't want this. I never made my peace with father, and now I'm supposed to be his successor? I tried to make them take Naadira, but... Only the son. Even an unworthy son like myself."

She seemed thoughtful, and Quatre waited with bated breath for what she was going to say. "It was inevitable for the two of you to fight. You were too strong to be father's heir, and he was too strong not to try to control you," she told him after a moment. And that... Is just the way it is."

"I don't have to accept it."

She raised her hand to his face, and the bracelets chimed again. "Yes... You do. You've been a warrior, but the next lesson in your life is learning how to accept. We all have to do things we don't want to." She pushed him back, until he found himself sitting in the chair that had so terrified him. "This is your seat, because no one else knows what you do. No one else is as brilliant as you are; you are the best of us, Quatre. We need you to lead us."

  


* * *

  
**Scene VII: Ballade Pour Adeline, Part I**

  


_"I walked a thousand miles just to slip this skin."  
--Bruce Springsteen, The Streets of Philadelphia_

  
He went home after the war.

It was odd, because Trowa Barton had never considered L3 home, not even during the first fifteen years of his life before the war, when he had been as deeply rooted to the place as he ever could have been. But now there was some special mystery to the streets of the colony that hadn't been there before - something that made them seem different to his eyes. Maybe it was that he'd grown older, or maybe it was just that he wasn't the same person that he had been when he had left this place a year ago.

He should have gone back to Earth, he knew. Back to the circus and back to Catherine. She'd adopted him as her little brother, and he knew that he had left her hanging at the end. She probably didn't even know if he was still alive. By all rights, he should go back. Back to her, to the Ringmaster…everyone who had been so kind to him.

But he couldn't.

He didn't know exactly why, Trowa mused, as he turned his shuttle towards the dully gleaming shell of the colony bubble in the distance, still not quite used to the peaceful silence of space, undisturbed by mobile dolls or flashes of guns. It wasn't that Catherine hadn't been kind to him - far from it. She'd been the kindest person he'd ever known, possibly with the exception of Quatre, and he would have loved to repay that kindness in any way he could. But maybe that was it. Maybe he knew that he couldn't repay her, and so he was running away.

It was odd, really, that his life had gathered into just a big amalgam of running away from everything, and even though the war was over and he was supposed to be more mature than he had been, he couldn't change that.

She'd lost her brother years ago, and she had thought she'd finally found him again. For a while, he had tried to be that brother. But it was time to face the reality of his own life. He wasn't her brother. Not anymore.

The tracking signal on the console flashed, and he realized, first of all, that he was being hailed by the colony control point entry police, and that second of all, he had forgotten to broadcast his radio signal. He flipped the switch at the same time the comm crackled at him.

"Unidentified shuttle, state your name and business."

"Trowa Barton," he replied calmly. "Former soldier, returning from the war."

He didn't know how they'd react to that, but the reply came almost instantly. "Stay on your present course. Follow the beacons to docking station A6938. Personnel will direct you from there."

So apparently there had been a steady flow of soldiers returning home from the battle, and his entry wasn't going to be suspicious. He realized belatedly that he hadn't had any kind of plan if they'd planned to arrest him. Not that he ever did - he usually moved on gut instinct and if he happened to be caught - well, tough luck.

The beacons led him to a fairly well kept docking station which looked like it had once been a quiet place for civilian shuttles to land. Now, however, it was a madhouse, with shuttles and transports crammed tightly side-by-side, and as he climbed out of the cockpit and slung his bag over his shoulder, Trowa wondered if it had been worth the effort to try and secure legal entry to the colony. There seemed to be several terminals with uniformed guards stationed at each, barking orders in harsh, raised voices. The people streaming through the terminals were mostly around the same age as Trowa himself, young men and women with haggard faces and tired eyes.

All soldiers, all coming home.

Coming home to what?

Trowa's ID had been handcrafted by Noin herself, yesterday aboard the Peacemillion, and she'd announced that it would survive anything the police tried to throw at it. He'd only told her, Quatre, and Une that he was going back to L3. Noin because he needed her help to make the ID for him. And Une and Quatre because…it would have been wrong to leave without saying goodbye.

He hadn't told Duo where he was going. It was better that way. He didn't think that Duo, if he had left before Trowa had, would have told him either. Heero and Wufei hadn't, disappearing into thin air in the middle of the night. Part of it amused him and part of it disturbed him, though he did not know why.

The lines were long, but he passed the last guard station without a problem and exited the hangar through the swinging double doors, wondering if public transportation was still running. The part of the colony he needed to get to was at least an hour away by fast transit, and he didn't quite feel like walking.

Luckily, the rail lines seemed to be still running, though the stations looked older and dirtier than he'd remembered them. There weren't too many people around and the fluorescent lights shone eerily on the nearly deserted platform. Before the war, the trains had been crowded.

He took the train to the far side of L3, dozing lightly in the empty train compartment as it creaked along the rails that had once offered an almost soundless ride. The sight outside the windows, when he felt like looking, was dismal. Everything was a foggy gray, and even the pedestrians he saw hurrying along the street wore dark colors, as if they were all in mourning for something. If he had cared, he would have been depressed, but Trowa had never been one to be depressed about much. Life happened and war happened, and if you were killed, then you were killed, and if you weren't, life went on. It was how things had always worked, and how things would work still after he was dead.

He thought of Catherine, waiting alone for him and staring at the sky every night, hoping for her "brother" to come home, and felt vaguely sad. It wasn't her fault that she'd grown so attached to him, he thought, cupping his chin in his hands and staring at the large, garish advertisement pasted atop the wall opposite him. One of its corners was peeling. "SAVOREUX!" it gushed in faded block letters, showing a platter of what looked to be some kind of steaming noodles and vegetables, obviously an ad for some restaurant. He had no interest in restaurants. He looked out the window again.

He wasn't Catherine's brother, no matter how hard she wanted him to be. Some things were like that. Some things could never change. His heart clenched for a moment, and he frowned, pushing the thought of her away. It was better for him to leave her like this. This way he wouldn't give her any more false hope. This way, she could move on with her life. Perhaps one day she'd find her real brother, and then they'd both be happy.

He had protected her. It was all he could do for her.

The train whistled and rolled into another deserted station, up to another deserted platform, and he stood up. This was his stop. The train came to a shuddering halt and he exited as the doors hissed open, trotting quietly up the chipping concrete stairs and up to the surface.

It was as gray here as it had been in the central L3 district, but it had always been gray here. He had expected it. He hefted his bag securely onto his shoulder and moved on. He hoped it would not rain.

An ordinary traveler here would not have noticed anything different between the streets he moved through, but then again, ordinary travelers would never venture here, for fear of having their throats cut or being shot through the back. Anyone who was sane enough to value their lives stayed away from the yakuza territory on any colony, but several of the bosses of the largest yakuza rings called this part of L3 home, and it was certain death for anyone who dared to cross a yakuza boss.

For him, Trowa Barton, this was home.

He hadn't told Quatre of his origins, though he was sure the empathic Arabian had guessed. He wasn't particularly proud to be a product of the yakuza system, but then again, Duo had been from the slums of L2, and from what he could gather of Heero's past, the Wing Gundam pilot had been plucked from the dredges of the L1Breaks, so he didn't think any of them would be horribly shocked. But Quatre…he had wanted Quatre to think the best of him. Thinking back on it, he supposed he had been a little foolish, for Quatre was someone who would never judge anyone on something so shallow. But it was too late for that now. Perhaps if they met again someday, he would tell him the truth.

He suppressed a harsh smile. Who was he kidding? There would be no someday.

This was home, and he was home to stay.

He knew there were watchers posted in the apparently empty, crumbling buildings that lined the dirty streets, but he paid them no heed. From the way he moved, he knew they would recognize a kindred spirit. The yakuza of L3 lived in an odd kind of wary peace with one another, and rival gangs respected the members of others, unless that member violated that unspoken law of trust. As long as you were recognized as one of them, they would do you no harm. Of course, the largest of the yakuza gangs, the Dewaya Gumi, was also the most powerful, and it was mostly under their strict thumb that this peace was maintained. Everyone benefited from it, though, so there was little complaining.

As a member of the Dewaya himself, then, there was little he had to fear.

He took the twists and turns of the street maze effortlessly, knowing still by heart the exact location where he was headed. It was almost surreal, coming back like this through the fog that had settled around him, wisping around the corners and curling about his feet. The neighborhood hadn't changed visibly since he had left, but it seemed - how to describe it - faded. Tired and old, just like the rest of the colony.

He turned one last corner, coming up to the huge empty doorway of an abandoned building that looked just like all the rest of the abandoned buildings, but as he descended the rickety steps, something in the back of his mind whispered to him and he knew he was being watched. Not only that, but he had been admitted.

Not that he had expected any less.

Moss grew in the damp cracks of the slimy walls, and something was dripping slowly and steadily, quite near. A leaky pipe? There were always some of those. A single electric light bulb illuminated the passageway that he entered after the stairs, and he made his way carefully but surely along the cold, dank tunnel.

There was an iron door at the end of the tunnel, and he did not attempt to open it, but simply stopped and waited. After a moment, it was drawn open, surprisingly softly and swiftly for a door of such size, and he stepped through. The door closed quietly behind him and he took a deep breath.

_This_ was home.

No one in their wildest dreams could have ever imagined that the inside of this building could be so different from the outside. The room he stood in was small, but with wood-paneled walls and marble flooring. A small chandelier hung from the high ceiling threw light sparkling off the tiles, and a single velvet-covered armchair sat in the left corner, looking very lonely and forlorn.

He quietly let his pack drop from his shoulder but did not move to sit in the chair, instead standing and saying nothing. They knew he was here, and they would make the next move.

He didn't have to wait long. There was a click and the heavy wooden door at the far side of the room swung open. He raised his eyes to the figure standing in the doorway, expecting to see one of the lower-ranking officers or maybe a runner, telling him to enter, but when he saw who it was, he jumped.

"_Oyabun_!"

The boss of the Dewaya Gumi was a little older than Trowa remembered him, and he had grown a little thinner since he had seen him last, but otherwise, he had changed little. He was a short, rather squat Japanese man, with a head of thinning gray hair and spectacles, dressed in a dark brown business suit. Anyone not knowing his true profession would probably have taken him for some sort of scholar, except for the fact that the little finger and the middle finger of his left hand were both missing.

"Welcome back, Trowa," he said. His French was slightly accented, but the accent was pleasant. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed that voice, with its accent and calming tone with a ring of iron underneath that caused legions of Dewaya members to snap to attention instantly at a single word.

Trowa bowed, the traditional Japanese bow that he'd mastered as a young child and had been performing since he could remember. "It's a surprise to see you here," he confessed, picking up his pack as the boss motioned him inside. It was another long corridor, one lined with the same wood paneling as the antechamber, and the air smelled slightly spicy with the fragrance of some exotic incense.

"Who were you expecting?"

"Martin, perhaps. Or Colbert. Have I grown in stature so, that the boss himself would come to meet me at the front entrance?"

The boss laughed, though it was easy to tell he was tired. "You belittle yourself too much. You're a hero, you know, Trowa. The toast of all our young ones. They tell stories about you in the fire room now. I think they even used to bet on you and Heavyarms, back in the early days of the war. That stopped after a while though. I got news of you the moment you stepped off that shuttle in the spaceport, and you've had people dogging you all the way home. I think some of the young ones want your autograph."

Trowa shook his head wearily. "I'm a young one too, oyabun. You seem to have forgotten that."

" 'Young' is merely a matter of perception," the boss replied calmly. The corridor opened into a wide chamber, with three door set into the wall, and both of them turned to the door on the far right, the boss opening it and gesturing for Trowa to enter. "You, in my eyes, are no longer young. You have seen too much."

"Haven't all of us?"

"Some," the boss said, his voice heavy. "Many have not returned from the war. I doubt most of them will."

The office of the boss of the Dewaya was curiously small and unadorned, which was strange for the office of any yakuza boss. Most bosses had huge offices, full of priceless goods that they'd smuggled in from foreign countries, lists on the walls of how many of their rivals they'd killed off, or expensive decorations and furniture. This office had none. The walls were bare and painted a dark blue, and the desk was a simple wooden one, with the only vaguely extravagant thing in the room being the padded office chair that sat behind the desk. There was no computer, no electronics except for the soft glowing lights that lined both sides of the wall. The boss crossed to the chair and sat, while Trowa remained standing.

"Doktor S is dead," Trowa said.

The boss looked up at him through his spectacles. "I know. It's a pity, really. I'd grown used to his company."

Trowa gave him a shadow of a smile. "That's hard to believe. You used to claim you never needed anyone's company."

"Times have changed. So have the Dewaya."

"You mentioned people going off to war. Did many of our runners leave to fight?"

The boss sighed. "More than you know. We lost almost half our numbers just before Operation Nova began. They flocked in droves to sign up…for OZ…I think they'd seen Vayeate on the vidfeeds and they thought that the best way to support us was to support you."

It wasn't surprising that they'd known he was the pilot of the Vayeate. The Dewaya had a way of finding everything out sooner or later. "You shouldn't have let them go," he said.

"What can I do?" the boss maintained, leaning back in his chair and staring at Trowa. "Times were hard, and I had no way to feed them. I threw some of the worst ones out…but I let the rest go. It was the least I could do."

"Why?"

The boss smiled. "You were our hero, remember."

Trowa shook his head. "I was no hero."

"Sit down, Trowa."

Trowa looked around, saw a chair behind him and sat, staring thoughtfully at the wall behind the boss' head. It felt odd, sitting here and talking with the boss like this, though he'd done it for as long as he could remember, at least once a week, up until he had left with Heavyarms for Earth. He didn't remember when he'd come to the Dewaya, but he did remember it had been Doktor S who had taken him in, and he remembered meeting the boss for the first time, about two weeks after he had first arrived.

_Oyabun, meet our newest hero_, Doktor S had said with a trace of faint laughter in his voice. _Trowa Barton._

He had known in some way, even as small as he was, that Doktor S hadn't been joking, but he hadn't realized fully how important his role was to the colonies and to the gumi until he was almost thirteen years old. He'd worked as a drug runner up until then, no different from the rest of the lowest rank of the yakuza, though he'd still go to training with the doctor and meetings with the boss twice a week. Back then, he had thought that everyone met with the boss twice a week. Doktor S had set him straight on that very quickly.

_You are not to tell anyone of what happens at these meetings_, the doctor had warned him. His false nose twitched and he had looked very serious. _If you do, there will be…consequences._

Having been raised in the yakuza and knowing what those consequences were, Trowa did not need a second warning.

It was hard to imagine that Doktor S was dead, that he wasn't still sitting in some corner of the office with his false nose twitching and that secretive smile on his face as Trowa remembered. The boss seemed to know what Trowa was thinking.

"I'm rather sorry that you had to endure all those years with S," he said, breaking the silence. "I know he was a…harsh taskmaster at times. But it was for the best."

Trowa smiled. "I know. I hold nothing against you or him. You both were very kind."

The boss laughed. "I think not. But then again, there is little kindness in the yakuza, so maybe you are right. We were as kind as we should have been."

"Well," Trowa said after a moment. "I'm back."

The boss clasped his hands in front of him. "I was waiting for you. There are a few things we have to discuss…things we probably should have discussed before you went away, I suppose, but there was so little time. Perhaps it would have made your life easier if we'd done so, but there's really no room for regrets."

Trowa nodded. "I understand."

"Well then. You'll understand this too. The organization has grown very small. I mentioned that almost half of us went to fight in the war. Most of those who did so haven't returned, and I don't suspect they ever will. Either they were killed, or they found new lives outside of the system, and for that I don't blame them. It's not for all of us, this life. But in any case, it's best that way. Gambling has lost its popularity these days - it's hard to find houses - and the L1 cartels seem to have been having a heady time with their monopoly of the drug business ever since the war started."

Trowa raised an eyebrow. "I didn't know that."

The boss shrugged. "Business is business. I'm sure the market will fluctuate and we'll regain our ground, but with the post-war economy, it's hard to tell. Right now, there are thousands of former soldiers flocking to the Breaks on L1, looking for a way to sustain themselves because their property was confiscated during the war, or their families were killed. Cartels are easy to join, you know. They're dens of lowlifes, criminals and worse, where everyone wants a piece of the pie and doesn't care how they get it. The yakuza doesn't accept just anyone, and it's hard to get in. Maybe too hard - but we have a history and a structure and a certain sense of propriety, and we're proud of it. It's the way the world works."

"You always say that."

"It's true. Now that we've got it out of the way, the second thing I want to tell you is that you can't stay here."

For a minute the room was perfectly still, and he imagined he could hear the workings of his own brain turning, trying to decipher a second meaning behind the boss' last statement, but there was none. "You can't be serious," he said finally.

"I am serious."

"But…" he stopped. "But…I've come back."

If he hadn't known better, he would have thought there was a sad sort of smile on the boss' face. "Yes. And now you must leave."

"But…_why_?" He was not distraught. Trowa Barton did not get distraught…he simply took life's lessons and moved on. But that thought didn't seem to rationally explain the surge of anger and crushing disappointment he was feeling at that moment. He'd come back to L3 expecting to be welcomed, and now he was being told to leave.

"Because you don't belong here," the boss said simply. "You're no longer part of us…you've experienced the world, Trowa. You've experienced too much. If you stay here, you are merely confining yourself to what could have been."

"But I don't want anything else!" he said angrily. "I've made my choice!"

"Trowa. Calm yourself."

He stood. His bag clattered to the floor. "I don't _want_ anything else," he repeated, more softly this time, but his voice sounded cold to his own ears. His hands shook and he clamped them against the sides of his thighs, balling them into fists. "I don't…I don't _have_ anything else," he finished, defeated. "I have nowhere to go."

"You have your sister."

Trowa's head shot up. "How do you know about her?" he demanded.

"I have ways."

"She's not my sister," he countered. "She calls me her brother, and I accepted it because she needed me. That's all. I have nothing to do with her anymore."

"You miss her, don't you?" the boss said softly. "I can see it in your face."

He closed his eyes. "No." The words rang hollow and false in his own ears, and he imagined her face in front of him. _Trowa, smile! Smile!_ "I don't miss her."

"What if I told you she was your true sister?"

"You have no way of knowing that," he ground out. "I'm an orphan. I was when Doktor S found me."

The boss heaved a sigh. "Trowa, I know this is hard on you. But you need to calm down. You're not naturally an angry person, and while I see how this might be disturbing you…I'd like to think you've learned some self-control in your years with us?"

He remained standing, shaking, and the boss said nothing, watching him. The shaking stopped eventually, and he stared at the wall, trying to clear his mind of all the murderous thoughts that were running through his head right now. The boss was right, the rational part of his brain replied, sounding puzzled. There was no reason to be angry. Fact was fact and truth was truth. He couldn't deny it.

The anger faded, and he bowed deeply.

"I am sorry, oyabun," he said."

The boss didn't answer, but walked over to a smaller table in the corner of the room that he hadn't noticed before. "It's interesting what objects you can pick up on the black market sometimes," he remarked in the offhand way that Trowa had long learned to recognize as the beginning of another one of the boss' lectures. "I found this about two months ago."

Curious in spite of himself, Trowa leaned closer to look at the small object in the center of the table. It was box-shaped, dark green and gilded with thin bands of gold that glimmered in the light. "What is it?"

"It's a music box," the boss replied. "Circa AC 15, very old, very rare and very valuable. And before you ask, yes, it's real gold."

Trowa smiled faintly. "I wouldn't have expected any less." He watched in silence as the boss wound the tiny machine, listening to the clicking noise of the mechanism in the stillness of the room and then the whir as the boss' fingers released the winch and the box began to play.

He hadn't heard a music box in a while - they were rare on L3. Quatre had had one, and he'd spent two hours one day sitting in front of it, winding it and listening to the song play, slow, run out, and stop, then winding it again to begin the cycle. Quatre's music box, though, had played a cheerful tune. This tinkling melody was different - mournful but hopeful at the same time, and very beautifully sad. 

"I don't recognize the music," he said at last, as the song slowed and stopped, the notes petering out to a doleful end. "What is it?"

"It's called _Ballade pour Adeline_. A very famous piece - originally for piano, though of course like anything else famous it's been adapted more times than anyone can count."

"It's very nice," Trowa said thoughtfully, as the boss wound the music box again and let the music play.

"Two Frenchmen named Olivier Toussaint and Paul de Senneville wrote it for de Senneville's daughter. Hence the name. Fitting for a young girl, don't you think?"

"What are you getting at?" Trowa said.

"Patience." The boss waved a hand. "I just wanted you to listen to that before I said anything else. A beautiful piece. We're all looking for our Adelines - people who we can love in that special way, not romantically, but a gentler kind of love. That kind of love, I think, may be even harder to come by than romantic love. In the whirlwind and commercialization of romantic love, that other kind of love loses its import sometimes."

"Maybe you're right," Trowa said warily.

"Some of us eventually find an Adeline," the boss continued as if Trowa hadn't spoken. "Others of us never do. It's up to you to find yours." He fixed Trowa with a sharp glance. "I think you have, but for some reason you won't accept it."

"Catherine's not my sister," he responded evenly. "She's better off without me."

"Don't be so sure."

"What do you mean?" Trowa asked, feeling cold.

"Before Doktor S, there was a man who he bought you from. This man was apparently from Europe, Earth. Poor, dressed in rags, you know the type. He claimed that this child was his and that he had to sadly part with it for its own good. However, as you know, our good Doktor S was never satisfied with just one answer, and he eventually wheedled the story out of the man. He and that child had been part of a circus caravan that had been attacked several days earlier. Most of the caravan died. He got you out alive and had been fleeing from his attackers ever since."

"Most of the caravan?" Trowa echoed. He knew where this was leading, but for some reason he needed to hear the answer out of his boss' mouth. He knew the boss saw that. The boss saw everything, it seemed.

"Most of the caravan," the boss repeated. "There was a girl. Her mother and father were killed in the attack. Her baby brother…was the child the man had taken.

"That child, of course, was you."

Trowa looked the boss straight in the eye, and the other man did not flinch, the dark eyes behind the spectacles holding the truth. He knew it was the truth. The boss had never lied to him.

"I know," he said quietly.

"Then you know why you have to leave."

"I do," he said. "At least, the facts of why. But I don't understand why I can't stay here. Even if Catherine is my sister, she is still better without me. I protected her once because I cared for her, and I helped her while I was there, but she doesn't need me anymore."

"Cared?" The boss' eyes were accusing now. "Helped? I don't think those verbs should be in the past tense, Trowa. You still care for her. You still want to help her. Just because you have been with us all your life doesn't mean that you cannot go back to her. Your life isn't here anymore, Trowa. Your future isn't here. When you took Heavyarms off this colony, you understood that. What's changed?"

"Everything has changed," Trowa replied softly. "The world…the colony…me…I've changed. I can't…I can't face her again. It's impossible."

"She loves you, I'm sure. And I can see that you love her."

"Love?" he resisted the urge to laugh. "You use that word lightly. I don't think it should be bandied around like that."

"I don't bandy words. You've known that for years."

The music box had long run out and the boss crossed to it, rewound it again. _Ballade pour Adeline_ filled the room, and the boss smiled. "Your Adeline. Think about it."

"I don't want to go," Trowa said, aware that he was sounding very selfish and stubborn, but in front of the boss, who had known him since he was a small child, he didn't care.

"I don't want you to go," the boss replied. "You've been a part of my life - a part of us - for far longer than most. You've grown up with us. But this is no longer your home now. Your home is with Catherine. Your sister."

"My Adeline?"

"Your Adeline," the boss repeated. "I know you don't believe me now. But perhaps one day, you'll understand."

"I don't want to go," he said again, noting that everything had gone a bit misty. He scrubbed at his eyes. He was too old to cry. He never cried.

He heard the boss come around the desk and then something small and cold was pressed into his hands. "Here," he heard him say. "Take this."

It was the music box.

"I don't need this," Trowa began, but the boss shook his head.

"Give it to her. Or keep it, as a keepsake. I have a feeling that it will make this a little more bearable."

Trowa said nothing, staring at the small box in his hand. He didn't need to ask if he could come back, to visit perhaps, or just to see old friends. Yakuza who had broken their ties, either voluntarily or involuntarily, did not come back. It didn't matter that they had parted with their gumi and their bosses as friends, and it didn't matter how high they had been in the rank structure. Parting meant death, and dead men did not come back to haunt the houses they had lived in during life. It was strictly against the code.

If he ever did try to come back, he would not leave L3 alive.

"I will take good care of it," he said finally, bending down and putting the box gently in his bag. "Thank you…for all you have ever done." He bowed, and the boss bowed back to him.

"Would like you like someone to show you out?" A mere formality, a last chance to say goodbye. Trowa shook his head.

"No, thank you. I can leave alone." He shouldered his bag and the boss opened the door for him.

"Farewell, Trowa Barton," he murmured softly, and as Trowa stepped out into the room beyond, the door slid shut behind him.

He was alone.

He stood there, hearing the muffled echo of his heartbeat in his ears, waiting for the tears to come again, but curiously, they didn't. The music box was heavy against the small of his back, and on a whim, he reached behind him and took it out, gently cradling it in his palm. It was strangely solid and heavy for such a small thing. He wound it.

As the music began to play, he turned his feet towards the door of the place, letting the notes guide him through the tunnel, up the stairs, into the mists of the streets he had once called home, leading him back to the place from where he had come.

  


* * *

  
**Scene VIII: Eulogy for the Fallen**

  


_"There are two roads to walk down  
And one road to choose."  
-- Dana Glover, Thinking Over_

  
After.

Relena had never thought about after. After had always been some far-off day, when her happily-ever-after was upon her, and the world was bright. She was there, now, but there was no "happily-ever" in front of her after. There was just an after.

After war.

After Heero.

After Treize.

It was odd that she mentally listed Treize last, when she had a moment to reflect, but Treize was the one who really was to blame for the whole mess. He had been the grand manipulator for years, and now he was dead. The war was over and already starting to fade into people's memories after three months of no fighting, and Heero…. Well, Heero wasn't really an "after." Heero was an "until." But Treize…

It was scary to think of him, dead. She had spoken to him on so many occasions, and now he was dead, and she was going to his funeral. Not that she wanted to, really. But Treize's funeral was to be the closure that the world needed to the wars, and she understood, better than most, that this really wasn't about him.

It was about the survivors.

She sat in the back of the limousine as Pargon carefully navigated the full streets, reflecting on how much work needed to be done. Cinq was a ruined country, and the world really had no government or military. It would be so easy for someone to rise to power, promising what the people wanted to hear, sparking wars as they fought for lands… but that wouldn't happen, she vowed to herself, clenching her fists. The people were tired of war, and were finally ready to embrace the pacifism that she offered.

She needed to lead her country, and by leading Cinq, she would show the world that absolute pacifism could work…. That the wars had led to a brighter a future, that the soldiers who had spent their lives hadn't bought a false dream. Today would be the pinnacle event of the new day that was dawning, for today was the day the world would mourn Treize, and all its fallen sons by extension in his person.

Relena glanced down at her perfectly manicured nails. Her beautician had dragged her out of bed at 4 a.m. to make sure her appearance was perfect, and that included replacing her ragged, bitten nails with acrylics that had been filed into an elegant French manicure. She had worn a black dress and her hair had been twisted into an elaborate braid. Aside from a slight touch of lipstick and blush, she wore no make up. It had taken four hours to prepare the perfect look. She hated it, but she knew that this speech would be listened to by anyone who could get at a vid feed.

"Pargon?"

"Yes, Relena-sama?" her most faithful servant responded as he turned into the parking lot that had been reserved for VIPs. The security around them was incredibly tight, but between the codes that had been program into the car itself, and Relena's face, they had been waved through quickly.

"What does it mean, to be a legend?" she asked softly.

The car slid to a stop, but they remained sitting in silence. "I'm not sure I'm the person you should ask, Relena-sama."

"Who can I ask?" she replied, staring out of the privacy glass. "I'm not allowed to have any uncertainties anymore… I'm already a living legend. So I want to know what I'm supposed to be."

Pargon looked at her in the rear view mirror, resting his immaculate white-gloved hands on the steering wheel. "Relena-sama, you merely have to be yourself. Don't worry about living up to expectations. You'll do fine, if you don't worry about what others think of you. Merely be who you are."

She remained motionless. "It's hard being a legend, Pargon. Treize was a legend; that thought goes around and around in my head. And he was killed by his own legend, I think. He got caught up in what others wanted of him, and eventually, he became a martyr, burning out to give the legend a wonderful ending. Few legends end with 'happily ever after.'"

"How do you define a legend, Relena-sama?" He asked her. "A legend is simply something we create in our own minds - it's something that the human being controls. So you need to control your own legend. Treize is dead, and today will end his legend. It will grow in the telling, but there will be no new tales to add to it," Pargon told her. "Yours is just beginning."

"It's a new day..." she whispered, then gave him a slight, but sincere smile, the first real smile she had used since learning Heero had left. "Thank you, Pargon."

"I live to serve you," he said. He opened his door and got out, and she waited for him to open hers, since she wasn't allowed to open her own doors anymore. Being a queen was annoying, sometimes. _But I am not the Queen of the World anymore_, she thought to herself, and her eyes widened as she realized the possibilities. _I've been living like I was expecting to regain that throne, but it's not going to happen... not with this new World Nation forming._

Relena got out of the limousine, her thoughts still whirling.

The gallery where the funeral was to be held was immense. The world's politicians had vied for the best seats, for every inch of it was being filmed and broadcast. Relena had been chosen to deliver the eulogy, though she didn't understand why. Treize had unseated her as the Queen of the World - surely it had occurred to someone that she might hold the man in some resentment?

Still, this was a media circus. She walked into the Geneva Audience Hall, the largest auditorium in Geneva. They had wanted to hold it in Notre Dame, in Paris, because Treize had been French and loved that city, but the logistics had been too much to manage. The politicians were all in Geneva, so the services had to be there. Tomorrow, on January 1, the new World Nation Charter would be signed into effect, along with the Charter for the Preventers, a world-wide military and police organization designed to protect the peace. Today was the last day of the old year, and was to lay the turmoil of the past months to rest with it.

A new beginning for a new year, Relena thought. She looked out over the crowd, wondering where Une was. More than anything, it was Treize's lady who should have delivered his eulogy, not a politician. Une was the one who knew him as a person, not as a the icon people were already shaping his memory into.

Around her, cameras flashed and she heard the hum of the news networks recorders and the babble of reporters. She didn't smile for them, or wave, and when one of the reporters shoved a microphone in her face, she gently pushed it aside. "Today is for mourning," she said softly. "You'll hear everything you need in my eulogy."

Pargon appeared at her elbow, and helped her through the crowd. "Nicely done, Relena-sama," he said approvingly.

"Don't they have an ounce of sensitivity?" she demanded. "This is a memorial service for someone who died."

"You know as well as I do that's not the truth," a voice said, and Relena turned around, embarrassed she'd been overhead. Her eyes widened as she recognized Lady Une, dressed in a blue suit, wearing a red rose on her lapel. "It's a staged event to gain support for the World Nation."

"Lady Une," Relena said, and she went over and embraced the older woman, much to both of their surprise. They had come a long way from the assassination of Vice Minister Darlian. "How are you holding up?" she asked.

"I'm fine," the older woman assured her, pushing back and holding onto her shoulders. "A bit tired from all of the work I've been putting in, but I'm never happy unless I'm working full-throttle."

"Are you..." Relena began, feeling the need to press. The woman was wearing heavy make-up, obviously concealing circles under her eyes. Une's suit was a bit loose, and Relena was willing to wager that she'd lost five pounds in the week since Treize had died.

Une gave her a gentle smile. "I knew he wouldn't outlive this war, as much as I wanted to believe he would. Somewhere inside of me, I knew he was a shooting star, brilliant and beautiful, but... they burn out when they hit the atmosphere of this real world. He was into astronomy, you know? Occasionally he'd take a night off and go to the nearest planetarium and talk to the astronomers there. He was always up to date with the latest asteroid and meteor finds, and actually paid to have a star named after me for my eighteenth birthday."

Relena was fascinated. She hadn't known anything of Treize's personal life. "I didn't know…"

"He loved it. Many of pilots do, wanting to know more and more about the stars they fly among," Une explained.

"I wish I had known him better," Relena said sincerely. "He was a great friend to my brother, and he sounds like a wonderful man..." _How many people would think to pay to have a star named after a friend? She wondered. It's a gift that really would last forever…_

Une looked out over the audience, and her eyes shone with unshed tears. "He was the best." 

"You should be the one giving the eulogy," Relena said. "You would be able to make him real to these people..." Relena said. "All I'm going to be able to do is babble propaganda."

Une looked at Relena, then reached out and straightened the queen's collar with tenderness. "That's why you're giving it. Treize isn't supposed to be human anymore... it's part of the reason he died. He died to end the era of soldiers and war, but also to give people a new icon, a icon to look up to for this age."

"What? I..."

"We need leaders desperately, but we also need heroes and dreams. Treize hated war, more than any of us. And he died to help you end it, Relena. He became your opposite, and your knights defeated him. You won, Relena, and now the road stretches before you..." Une told her. "It's not Treize's world anymore; we are his heirs, and you are his successor, more than anyone, with the exception of the pilots. But the pilots are gone, scattered to the winds... so you must carry on where he left off."

Relena shivered at the enormity task Une had just entrusted her with. It was one thing to have dreams for Cinq, but to carry on for Treize, and by extension all those who had fallen before him... "I-"

"Une? We should get to our seats - the funeral is about to start," a man said, coming up to them.

Une looked at the older man and placed her hand on his arm to guide him closer. "Relena, have you met General Brown?"

"No," she said, extending her hand, which he took in a firm clasp that exuded confidence. "It's a pleasure.

"Same. So this is the Queen of the World," he mused.

She blushed. The way he said it made it sound like he was dissecting her life. "I don't hold that title anymore," she corrected politely.

"Even when a kingdom is destroyed, the titles still exist," the older man corrected. His sharp gray eyes scanned her, and his voice seemed to proclaim only the truth.

"Michael helped me draft the charter for the Preventers," Une said, interrupted the exchange smoothly. 

"I'm going to be in charge of our intelligence branch," he said. "Une wanted me to become the second in command, but I don't like the main command branch."

"Military intelligence is a joke," Une bantered back, and Relena could see that this was apparently a running joke from the way Brown groaned.

"Do you have officers selected?" Relena asked curiously. She hadn't really given the Preventers any thought, aside from being relieved that it would give the old soldiers something constructive to do. A world peace force was needed; not even the most pacifistic politician could deny that.

They exchanged glances. "We have ideas. We officially become operational on the second, so that's when we start hiring," Brown said. "And Une? We really do need to take our seats or one of those media vultures will steal them..."

Une smiled. "I'm coming. Relena... it's been nice talking to you."

"Agreed. Call me sometime, and we'll go out to lunch... as friends. I have too few friends left now," Relena said wistfully, thinking of all her political enemies and the way everyone else had been scattered by the war. Had it really been less than a year ago the most desperate desire of her heart had been to get Heero to come to her party?

The older woman nodded her agreement, and let Brown lead her away.

She took her seat in the front row beside the Emperor of Japan and Australia's Prime Minister, waiting for things to begin. Relena knew that the service was going to be long, dull, and ecumenical, even though Treize's family was Catholic. It was so staged it made her teeth grind at the thought of the show. She only hoped that Une would be able to maintain her attitude through it. She wondered if Dorothy was there, or still on the Peacemillion. Dorothy was Treize's cousin, and she would have been wonderful to see as well - but then she was also in hot water for having sided with White Fang in the end. Relena wished her brother was there. There would be no services for Milliard Peacecraft, even though he, too, had burned out spectacularly in that final battle.

So many had died. She remembered all the young soldiers she had seen, and wondered which ones had survived. She wondered how the others were doing, and where Heero was. She... she got caught up in her reverie, and mourned all those who had died in the battles. 

After the first five different priests had invoked the blessings of their faiths, Relena rose to deliver the eulogy. There had been much debate over who was to speak, and many people had offered her carefully scripted eulogies with hidden agenda after she had been the one selected. Still, she had politely refused them all, saying she would find the words herself. A eulogy had to come from the heart, she had told them with sincerity.

Still, it was hard to force herself to rise to her feet at that moment. She had memorized a speech, of course, but now it seemed paltry and disrespectful. It was about the world joining together in the wake of Treize's death, and using his example to lead them… and all sorts of political gibberish. She sighed, looked over to where Une sat three rows back, and made up her mind.

Treize had been the founder of this new age, but people needed to know he was human. They needed to connect to him… She went to the podium, staring at the twenty microphones that ran from it. All of the news networks were waiting for what she would say. As she stepped up onto the riser that had been placed for her to use, she leaned forward slightly, placing her hands in plain view. Her father had taught her that. _Always show your hands… it shows your honesty. Only gesture when you have an important point to make._

She stared out over the crowd, and then over the flowers and pictures that were on the stage beside her before taking a quiet breath to gather her thoughts. "Treize loved the stars," she said. "He was an amateur astronomer, and I'm sure he perfected it to the level of being close to earning a degree in it, but it was because he loved the stars," she said, speaking clearly, but quietly. The microphone amplified her voice, but there was an intensity to it that she had been lacking for the last week.

Relena glanced out over the audience, and saw Une's eyes sparkling before she looked over at the politicians. "He was a politician, too. He played the political game with the best of them, and before he died, he was the winner. He was a family member… he was a friend. But above all, he was a leader, taking us into the new age.

"Treize loved soldiers," she continued. "That's why he hated mobile dolls. He loved the soldiers for what they represented to him: honor, courage, loyalty, discipline. But I think he loved them so much that he wanted to lay their destiny to rest, at last." Relena studied the soldiers who had been invited to the carefully choreographed event. She knew that she would be upsetting some of them, but she hoped that her words would bring them a sense of peace. They were supposed to represent their comrades, but Relena wished there was more of them. Treize had really been a soldier at heart, she felt, but there was no way she could say that in front of the cameras. If she had had her way, the whole audience would be filled with the surviving soldiers, and the politicians could stand outside. Treize would have preferred it that way.

"Treize was a soldier himself, and he understood them best. He had the ability to fit into any environment, and put anyone at their ease. Of course, he could make people uncomfortable, too. He'd look you in the eye and challenge you simply by being himself… he did this to me, once, and I'd like to think I've answered his challenge. I will still answer that challenge," she said. 

_Are you listening, Treize Khushrenada? she wondered. Am I doing what you wanted me to do?_

"He wasn't always right, but he was unfailing in his efforts to perfect himself. As we all should be…" she continued. It was a tactful way of saying that Treize had been on the losing side, but phrasing it so he could be viewed as a hero by everyone. No one knew who the pilots were and there were decidedly mixed feelings about them. Right now Relena was really the only one who had come through the war pristine, and she knew many of her colleagues resented her power.

"Trying to define Treize in words is impossible. Treize was complex; he hated war, but he was a soldier; he was a dreamer who could see reality; respected by both his comrades and enemies, he was one of the people who shaped our destiny. He's gone," she stated. She leaned back a little, pausing to let people process that. "Treize Khushrenada has died, died among the stars he loved so well."

_Forgive me, Treize, for using you like this_, she whispered inside her head, sending a silent prayer to the heavens for the well-being of his soul. _But you would understand… I'm merely doing what you would, were our situations reversed. It's time for me to begin the propaganda campaign._

"They say it's better to burn out than to fade away, and it seems that happened to Treize. He was a shooting star, and the world is a poorer place for his loss. Tonight I'm going to watch the sky, and hope that his spirit, his hope, will inspire me to do what is right." She looked at the crowd. "I hope you will all do the same' take a moment to pause tonight, where ever in the world you may be on this New Year's Eve, and reflect on those we have lost in this war. They cannot fight for us anymore, so it is up to us to pick up the torch of their dreams…

"A week ago, there was a danger that the stars would never shine again. Thanks to Treize and others like him, we have a future. For them, and for ourselves, we must make the best possible use of it." Now she raised her hands getting ready to use them to emphasize her point. "Tomorrow we will begin a new year, and let's hope we'll take the lessons we've learned from this horrible one with us. If we learn nothing from the past, then it all was futile… and they all died in vain," she said flatly. "But tomorrow is a new year, and I have a good feeling about it."

Then Relena spoke so softly it was barely above a whisper as she pointed up toward the sky, tilting her head back as she stared at the imagined heavens. "Tonight, though, I'm going to watch the stars, because Treize and the others who died cannot."

  
Act 0 Part I | Act 0 Part III | Back to Sainan no Kekka 


	4. Treize Khushrenada : The Creator of Hist...

_Gundam Wing is property of Sotsu Agency, Bandai Studios, and TV Asahi. Sainan no Kekka and all original characters and plot copyright 2000-2003 by Quicksilver and Gerald Tarrant. Please ask permission before reposting._

  
**SHIN KIDOU SENKI GUNDAM WING**

SAINAN NO KEKKA  
ACT ZERO, PART III

** Daiji na hito no tame ni  
Nagasu namida itami ga  
Sekai o tsuranuki daichi o nurasu  
Kono kanashimi o tometai**

I believe your love  
Akiramenai  
Kizutsuita tsubasa hirogete  
Habataku sora kagiri no nai  
Yume o egaku haruka  
** The pain of tears shed  
For those held dear  
Pierces the world and drenches the earth  
I want to end this sorrow**

I believe your love  
Never give up  
Spread open your wounded wings  
Flying up to the sky, you sketch  
A boundless dream, so far away  


**--Gundam Wing, _Last Impression_  
[Endless Waltz]**  


  
  
**Scene IX: They Say Lucifer was the Lightbringer**

  


_"How art thou fallen from heaven, O Lucifer,  
son of the morning! How art thou cut down to  
the ground which didst weaken the nations!"  
--Isaiah 14:12_

  
Sally Po stood in front of her new office, trying to assimilate her surroundings. She hated to admit it, but she was impressed. It had taken less than six months for them to complete construction on this massive compound which was to house the heart of the Preventers base. 

"What do you think?" Une asked, coming in without waiting for an invitation. She craned her head around as she tried to take in the immense office, studying the attention to detail with a hint of satisfaction lurking around her lips.

"I think that if all my guests come in without knocking that I'm going to have some serious discipline problems." 

Une smiled a bit. "We're still not officially in. The ribbon cutting is tomorrow," she said. "Until then, I can roam around, sticking my nose where I please claiming inspections."

"You're too noisy for your own good," Sally said accusingly.

"Maybe. Maybe not," Une replied. "I get my own way more often than not - if I wasn't the way I am, we'd never have gotten where we were and the politicians would have slapped us with a second-rate budget in make-shift buildings." She sighed as she studied the new desk sitting on the pristine navy carpet. "It was expensive, but our headquarters had to be new, not relics of the war. It's symbolism, but we speak to ourselves and to the world with those symbols."

"It's politics," Sally said with a hint of disgust. She looked down at her new uniform, and although the colors were not so different than what she had worn when she had fought during the war, she felt distinctly uncomfortable in them after six months. 

"Everything in life is politics," Une replied. "Trying to cross the street is about the politics of traffic; you versus the car."

"That's an unpleasant way of thinking," Sally replied sourly, knowing her face had to look like she had just sucked on a lemon. "I would have avoided it if I could have, these politics on this grand-world scale." 

"It chose you, Sally. You're one of the people who is destined to shape the world, and you're going to live up to that potential." 

"We've been over this before, haven't we?" Sally murmured. 

"Yes, when I hired you..." Une murmured.

"You mean conned me," Sally accused. She still blamed Une for the major guilt trip she had laid down on her.

"You did what you thought was right... after all, we're still waiting for the dawn," Une said softly before going over to the curtains to throw them open to let light spill into the room. Sally was pushed into her memories of that day, nearly six months before. She'd arrived back on Earth on January 1. It was an auspicious day, the first day of a new year, and hopefully a new era. An era without war, an era of peace.

As she stepped off of the shuttle onto the ground, she tilted her head back and breathed in the sweet air of the planet she had fought so hard to protect, almost unable to believe that they had won. Together she and her allies had succeeded in freeing the world to face a new destiny.

Why did she feel so empty, though?

The shuttle had, like most of the shuttles that had come off from Peacemillion, landed in Geneva so soldiers could join the celebrations. Sally intended to book a flight out to Beijing as soon as possible, wanting to get back to China as soon as possible. China was her home, and she missed it deeply.

She looked down at her scuffed shoes, wondering what stories they could tell. She hadn't replaced them since she had gone AWOL, and she could see a hole on the top. The soles were thin, and one of the first things she intended on doing was buying a new pair - that was after she had a good meal, slept for a week, and had a shower. Not necessarily in that order, either.

Sally sighed a bit, realizing the extent of her fatigue if she was fixating on her shoes.

She turned towards the gate, ready to get moving. It would be hard to find a hotel room, but she still had a few friends who would probably let her crash on a couch until she was able to arrange a flight. Failing that, she could always sleep in the terminal. She considered her options and funds, sighing a bit more. Being a rebel fighter did not lend itself to financial success. She was a world hero, but dead broke.

Oh, how her mother would scold her. Her parents had always warned her that she would come to this end, if she took a military career. She hated proving them right.

"Sally?"

The sound of someone calling her name pulled her out of her sleep- deprived funk. From the insistent tone, the person had called her a few times without receiving a reply.

"Yes?" Sally said, trying to find the source. The airport was full of people trying to find loved ones still streaming back from the war. It would be weeks until all the soldiers managed to find come back Earthside, and months before they were properly repatriated.

"You look like hell," an amused voice said. "They were keeping you busy up there, weren't they?"

Sally finally managed to fix red-rimmed eyes on the source of the voice, and she almost gurgled in shock. Lady Une was standing there, her arms tucked neatly behind her back as she studied Sally's ragged, drawn-out appearance. It was only through the training she'd had as a doctor, the training to always stay calm and in control of the situation, that let her raise and inquiring eyebrow. "There weren't enough doctors to go around to care for the war wounded," she said. "Besides, taking care of Heero Yuy and Quatre Winner required a certain discretion that many people didn't have."

"I heard Heero went missing almost immediately after," Une said softly.

"He did." Sally's eyes went dark as she remembered. "But he was pretty banged up, and I took care of what I could. I knew he'd take off - that's Heero for you. Ride off into the sunset when things are done, the classic hero, if you'll pardon the pun."

"We could have used him," Une said. "And Maxwell and Chang... They're gone as well. Only Barton and Winner are left, and Winner has to go back to his company, and I'm not wagering on Barton staying for long. He's always been the one to vanish into thin air, even more easily than Yuy."

"He's staying until Quatre's well enough to travel," Sally agreed. "After... Well, I have my theories where he'll go, but if he wants to live his own life, I say let him."

Une nodded a bit. "He deserves a childhood. I think they all do."

Sally had to stifle a yawn. "Sorry. But I'm exhausted. You obviously didn't come here to discuss the pilots, so what do you want? You should be consolidating power. Or something productive like that, not looking me up. It's a big date. The charter for the world nation is being signed, along with the provisions for your... Peacekeepers or whatever you're calling them. You need to be working on that. It's important." 

"The Preventers," Une corrected her. "And I am doing something right now," she informed the doctor, a slight gleam in her brown eyes.

It was a measure of how tired Sally was that she didn't recognize what Une was getting at immediately. "Oh? What are - oh. Oh, no," she said. She shook her head as what Une was hinting at sank in. "I'm not getting involved. I've had enough of the military to last me a lifetime."

Une tilted her head. "Really? I thought you were a soldier by blood, fighting for what you believed in."

"Une... I'm a doctor. I help people, and I haven't been able to practice medicine since the war began. Not really - a bit of field medicine, but that's not the same thing. I was thinking about setting up a clinic in a poorer part of China, and getting back to my people. There aren't enough doctors in the world..."

Une's arms fell out of the parade rest she had been holding the entire conversation. "Follow me," she said softly.

Sally was confused. Une wasn't one of her favorite people in the world; she had never understood the ruthless, "ends justify the means" personality of the colonel, or the sweet, loyal nature she had adopted when she had become the delegate to the colonies on Treize's behalf. Still, Une had been loyal to Treize above all, and that deserved respect. Without her speech at the close of the war, Sally doubted that this peace would ever have been obtained. Une was one of the key players in the world and deserved to be heard.

_Then I'll tell her no_, Sally decided, lifting the traveling bag and slinging it over her shoulder so she could follow Une.

The two women made their way through the airport, and despite all the recent coverage of both of them on the news, neither was recognized. _No one expects a god to walk among mortals_, Sally thought with heavy amusement, as they wove through the crowds. Une had a clear destination in mind, not speaking as they made their way between the concourses before stopping on a bridge between the two. 

Sally's breath caught at the beauty of the city as they stood in a glass walkway. Under their feet stretched a four-lane highway, but no cars raced under it. Instead, it had been blocked off, and people spilled out into the street, dressed in colorful clothing and throwing confetti, dancing and laughing. She watched their gyrations and could see their joy - it had a wild, almost tangible quality to it. 

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Une said, touching the glass longingly. "This is what we fought for, for people to know this joy, instead of sorrow." 

"Indeed." Sally found herself touching the glass as well, unable to stop herself from reaching out. "Why do you want me so badly?" she asked. "To keep this peace, we need ordinary people to lead good lives. I want to be one of them."

"You can't," Une said bluntly. "You've danced the razor's edge during the war - you know how it cuts. You know what price your fame is. People admire and respect you, but you have a duty to it now. You can't sink back into obscurity, because the world won't let you."

"I'll show people my way," Sally said stubbornly.

Une was quiet as she thought on it for a moment. "I want to give you a chance to save people, Sally. You have the drive and ability, and the position. You're unique... You're one of the rebel leaders I need to bring into the fold to heal the schisms that the war caused. The pilots may have been people's demons, but they were heroes as well, and many people know you were their ally. Since I can't have them, I'll take you instead. I want you, both on your merits and as a representative of the pilots."

"I'll endorse you."

"Words are meaningless. Actions speak louder than words, you know that."

"I'm a doctor, not a politician!"

"You're a fighter above all, Sally," Une replied. "You fight for what you believe in, and you use whatever skills you have. You're a born leader, and I need you to realize that your abilities are better spent on the grand scale. You can save one life as a doctor, or you can save thousands by working for the Preventers. What's the greater good, Sally? There are may people who can become doctors, but there's only one Sally Po, and I need her in my organization."

Sally looked down at the revelers, wanting to deny the truth in Une's words, but finding herself unable to. "I hated Treize, you know," she said softly.

"What?" Une said, startled by the sudden change of pace.

"I hated Treize. I blame him for all of this, for beginning a war based on power. Power corrupts; absolute power corrupts absolutely, and he became the embodiment of that truth to my mind." She watched as a child lost a balloon, a red balloon the color of blood. The balloon drifted past the window, and up into the air, which was starting to darken with the colors of summer twilight. "I thought you should know, if we're to work together."

"You didn't understand him," Une said in response. Her voice was neutral as she kept from looking at the other window. "Treize was locked into a role which he felt he had to fulfill, because no one else would. He saw things on a grand scheme which I couldn't begin to grasp. Maybe the only people who did see things on that scale were those who piloted the Gundams; he held a special love for them. Maybe not. But everything he did, I believe he did because he loved this world and its people."

"Vision. You claim he had that. So? Many people do, but they don't try to impose it on the rest of the world by destroying governments and sinking us into world war. If not for the pilots..."

"...But they were there," Une replied. "Treize knew they were there, and he knew they would win."

Sally stared at the woman who gazed serenely out the window, her face a mask. Who was Lady Une? She wondered. Who had she become, now that her lord was gone?

"He had that much faith in them?"

"Didn't you?"

Sally sighed a bit, raking a hand through her hair. "You know how to win an argument, don't you?" she asked a bit bitterly.

"Treize taught me to win, even in defeat." Her eyes became distant as she studied something only she could see, a memory of the past and a man who had shaped the world according to his dreams. "I loved him, but he's gone. We're going to pick up the torch for him, and finish bringing the light to the world."

Sally nodded warily. "I'm in. But... What do you mean, finish? Aren't we done?"

Une shook her head, the long tendrils of her hair brushing against her cheeks. "They say the darkest hour is always before the dawn... And we've just come through that. We're entering that moment when the light is just starting to break the horizon, but it's not quite bright enough to see without fear of stumbling."

"I wonder," Sally murmured, coming out of her reflections.

"Hmm?" Une turned back to her, smiling a bit as the sunlight lit her hair from behind, creating a halo-effect which Sally found at one ironic and amusing. "Something on your mind?"

"Are we moving too fast?" Sally said softly. "Are we trying to forget about the things that matter most, and replace the old paradigm with something that lacks substance?"

Une turned to her second in command with steady eyes. "Here's where I'm supposed to give you a rallying cry, about how everything we do is for the common good… but I'm not perfect. I don't know. All that I do know is that things are better now than they were six months ago, and better than they were a year prior to that. We're making steps, Sally. We need to look at the big picture."

"Like Treize?"

Une smiled. "I don't think any of us have that kind of vision. But… we need to pretend we do."

  


* * *

  
**Scene X: Ballade pour Adeline, Part II**

  


_"Oh brother, are you going to leave me wasting away?"  
-- Bruce Springsteen, Streets of Philadelphia_

  
It had been almost six months, but sometimes when Catherine looked at her brother, it seemed that he had just come home. That he was still the same exhausted, bedraggled boy who had shown up at the entrance to the circus camp one winter night a week after the Eve Wars, who she had stared at for those few frozen seconds before gathering him tightly in her arms and sobbing silently.

She had thought she would never see him again. It was a given, really, with the Gundam pilots. She hadn't even dared to think about him after the panic of the Eve Wars had subsided. He was better off where he was, she had told herself. She knew he wasn't dead, because if he had died, she would have felt it somehow. But she had thought he wasn't coming back.

He didn't tell her where he had been and why he looked so sad. There was something weighing on him other than the fact that he had survived through a war. He and four of the most brilliant boys in the world. They had survived, but sometimes she wondered if it was any more than that.

He never smiled.

The Ringmaster had planned an L3 tour long before the war had ever happened, and they had cancelled their plans when Operation Nova had started, much to the disappointment of the entire troupe. It wasn't that L3 was a particularly friendly colony, but it was the chance to go offplanet that was the main attraction - the chance to ride through space, through the stars, and to be able to tell the tale.

Two weeks after Trowa had come home and started tending the lions again like he always had as if he had never left, the Ringmaster brought up the topic of going back to L3.

"I've kept the plans for this tour in the drawer ever since, and it's a shame to waste them," he told Catherine one day at lunch. "Especially since Trowa's back, I think we can do an explosive show. No pun intended," he added hastily when Catherine looked sideways at him.

The date of the show had been set and she'd gone back to the tent that night to see Trowa standing in the doorway waiting for her. She could see he was upset about something, which was in itself a bit startling, because when he was upset, he rarely showed it. Except for those very few breakdowns during the war when he'd lost his memory, she had never seen Trowa anything but calm, serene, quiet. Far away.

"Are we really going to L3?" he said.

She looked at him for a long time before answering. She wanted to hug him, but something about the way he was standing told her to keep her arms to herself.

"We are," she said softly. "You don't want to go?"

He looked at her for a moment more and then shook his head ever so slightly, then was gone.

The memory of that night haunted her the entire shuttle trip to the colony, but when she looked at the boy sitting next to her in the seat, sleeping peacefully, she wondered if her fears were unfounded. There was something about L3 that he hadn't told her, but if it bothered him this much, she would be able to feel it…or so she told herself.

He didn't wake up till they had docked at the spaceport and the pressure door had been opened. It was uncanny how brilliant his green eyes were even through sleepy rims as he stretched like a cat and stood up from his chair, looking out the window.

"Interesting," he said, a surprised tone in his voice. "They usually don't keep visitor shuttles in this docking bay."

She blinked. "What do you mean?"

He shook himself, as if he hadn't realized he had spoken out loud, and turned to get his bags out of the overhead compartment. She waited for an answer, but after watching him busy himself with slinging bags over his shoulder, she realized he was deliberately ignoring her. 

Fine. If he wanted to do that, she'd just ignore him also.

The show that night was in a rather suburban area of the colony, and she was surprised when they actually drew a larger crowd than they had hoped. Reports in the latest business journals had shown that the L3 economy was down because of the post-war sluggish economic growth, but the many small children in the audience surprised her. She mentioned this to the Ringmaster backstage, and he had smiled.

"Well," he said. "A circus is kind of like a…ray of sunshine on a cloudy day, isn't it? We're not made of much substance, if you think of us in terms of politics or world economy. But I think we're much more substance than most people put faith in. A circus represents children, hope and families and love - everything that people need right now after the war."

Families and hope. She thought of Trowa, and she knew the Ringmaster saw her glance at where he was kneeling by the lion cages, petting one of the great beasts on the head, scratching through the long mane. The lion was gazing at him with a sort of fondness in its lidded eyes, and as if Trowa had sensed her gaze on him, he gave the big cat a final pat on the head and rose, disappearing behind the cage into the storage tent.

"Frustrating, isn't it?" the Ringmaster said softly.

She shook her head partly in puzzlement, partly in a sort of bemused sorrow. "I don't understand him. I never have. I've tried so hard…he's mercurial. I'm always afraid he'll get up and leave…that one morning I'll wake up and he won't be there." Her voice was trembling, she knew, and she stopped, tried to swallow.

"It is hard," he said, placing one big hand on her shoulder and giving her a gentle pat. "I know you love him very much…he has someone special in you, Catherine. Trust me. I believe he loves you, though he tries not to show it."

Catherine nodded slowly. "I…I know that. But Trowa isn't like most people. He's not tied to the ones he loves - not me, not the pilots, not even Heavyarms. I don't understand him and I wish I did. To him, love means love, but it doesn't mean staying with the person that you care about."

"I wonder if that's a better way of loving, then?" he murmured. "There are few people who can be sure of the love of someone who won't stay with them. It takes a lot of courage, you know, to love someone who isn't with you."

"It does," she replied. "I don't know if I have that courage."

The Ringmaster looked over to where Trowa had gone back behind the cages and nodded slightly. "You should probably go after him," he suggested softly. "I think it's about time you two had a talk."

She frowned at him, but he only gave her a slight smile and made his exit. The cheering in the main show tent was subsiding, and she could hear the drums that signaled the last act of the day. Sighing, she trotted back to her dressing room, hurriedly throwing off her costume and donning a t-shirt, a pair of long pants, and comfortable walking shoes. She heard the outer door open and then shut, and hurried out to see who had come in.

There was no one there.

She glanced around and realized that the tent was empty. That must have been Trowa. He must have also finished changing out of costume and slipped outside. Her curiosity piqued, she exited the tent, glancing around for him in the fading false twilight of the colony's environment control system. It was a brisk wintery day, not too cold, just right for what the weather would be on a nice winter day in France or Germany. She suddenly missed home very much.

_It's just a trip_, she reminded herself. _A couple of days on L3 and then we'll be on our way back to Earth._

A movement out of the corner of her eye caught her attention and she whirled around to see a familiar form disappearing down the road towards the train station. She blinked at it for a few seconds before she realized that Trowa was intending to take the train.

To where?

She broke into a jog, glad she was wearing appropriate clothes for it, and swung into the station just as one of the bullet trains pulled in. Spotting Trowa's familiar head of hair, she wove her way through the sparse crowd towards him as he disappeared into one of the cars. She fumbled in her purse for her train pass and managed to hurry aboard just as the whistle blew and the doors began to shut.

The inside of the train, for some reason, was cooler than it was outside, and Catherine shivered as the train began to move. She didn't know which compartment Trowa had vanished into, and the thought struck her that she wouldn't be able to know where he got off. 

Berating herself for being stupid, she stared absently out the window. Maybe she would be able to see him get off if she looked hard enough. Or if she didn't, she'd just ride the train back around to the station near the circus. Trowa didn't need anyone looking after him - that much she'd realized after he had gone off to fight even through his amnesia. Trowa was, first and foremost, his own person, no matter how hard she tried to deny it. All she could do was love him and support him as best as she could.

They'd gone through about seven stops and she hadn't seen him get off. Wondering if she'd missed him, she'd just settled herself in resignedly for a long, cold ride home, when the train pulled into the next station and she saw him appear from the next compartment, heading up towards the stairs. She jumped up from her seat, narrowly missing being crushed by the train doors as they shut.

She was careful to keep her distance from him, but apparently he didn't have far to go. The scenery at the surface of this train station was dismally bleak - crumbling buildings and broken archways. The air here seemed even colder than it had been on the train, and the sun had mostly set, casting an eerie purplish-black glow over the broken buildings and empty, leering windows.

He stopped a short distance away, pausing at some indefinable point, seeming to be waiting. She stopped too, but after a few minutes when he didn't seem to have any intention of moving, she cautiously crept up behind him.

"You could have asked me if you could have come with me," he said, not turning around. "I wouldn't have stopped you."

"Would you?" Catherine said. "I don't know about that."

There was the faintest trace of a smile on his face when he finally looked at her. "Have more faith in me than that, dear sister," he said.

She closed her eyes. "I'm trying," she whispered. "It's very hard, you know? You…come back from the dead like you've never been gone, almost as if you're expecting me to just welcome you back into my life. But it's hard. I can't…I can't just do that."

He looked faintly sad. "I don't expect you to," he returned. "My life is my own…your life is your own."

"But people touch each other through their lives!" she snapped. "Look, Trowa, you may be independent, but people need each other! We can't just go through life pretending that human presence doesn't matter!"

He started to say something, but she cut him off with a sharp gesture. "Trowa. I love you. I don't know how many times I have to say it before you realize that. I know you might not love me the same way I love you, but I want you to know how deeply I care for you - just as I would a real brother. And…it's hard for me to watch you appear and disappear out of my life."

This time when he looked at her, he was smiling. She blinked. "I know, Cat," he said. "I know that very well. I…after this, I'm home to stay."

"After this?"

He gestured around him. "After this tour. After L3. I just wanted…to pay my final respects to a place that I once loved."

"Here?" She tried to keep the incredulousness from her voice. "You mean…this part of L3?"

He didn't answer. The sun was almost entirely gone now, and there were no lights. She shivered.

"It's cold," he said, without emotion in his voice, but she felt a jacket drape around her and she clutched it gratefully. He continued talking, his voice far away, as if he were addressing someone - not her, but someone else, someone who might hear even though she couldn't sense anyone around but the two of them. "If I go a couple more steps, I'll be home…but I can't. Not anymore. I just wish I could once again see those who had done so much for me…and thank them. I've found my place now. And in order for me to keep that place, I have to forgo those extra few steps and come back the way I came."

"Trowa?" she whispered, confused.

She saw him fumble in one pocket and take out a small square package. "Here," he said. "Open it."

Still confused, she took the box in numbed hands and managed to until the ribbon holding the top shut. The object tumbled out into her palms - a small, gilded metal box.

"Trowa?"

"Open the lid," he said. "It's wound already."

She slowly opened the delicate top lid of the box, and gasped in delight as the melody began to play - a tumbling trickle of tinkling notes that seemed to permeate the darkness around them and light up the cracked concrete sidewalk where they stood. "It's beautiful," she whispered. 

"It was given to me by an old friend," he said, and by the tone in his voice, she sensed somehow that they were related: the music box, this crumbling landscape of dead buildings, the vacant look in his eyes and the tone in his voice when he talked about L3.

"An old friend? How…where…?"

He took one of her hands gently. "It doesn't matter," he said. "Just trust that I won't leave you. Not this time."

"I want to trust you, Trowa," she said. "You're my brother…no matter what anyone says." She felt him shift slightly, then put tentative arms around her. The melody from the music box was still playing, and she felt herself smiling as she hugged him tightly.

"I promise you," he said. "I'll be here with you."

  


* * *

  
**Scene XI: Echoes Out of Time**

  


_"And no one calls us to move on  
And no one forces down our eyes  
And no one speaks and no one tries  
And no one flies around the sun."  
-- Pink Floyd, Echoes_

  
"Hilde!" a voice called, and Hilde jerked upright from under the car she had been examining, forcing a pleasant smile to her face. She slid out carefully, because she'd bumped her head on the underside of vehicles so many times that she'd lost count. The person who'd been calling her had been the cause of more than half of those accidents, much to her exasperation. Since Duo had left, she'd found herself constantly the subject of former soldiers' attentions, and of all of them, Brent Adams was undoubtedly the most persistent. "Not interested" and "no" didn't seemed to be in his vocabulary.

The man who stood before her was handsome, in a bland sort of way, but nothing compared to Duo. He had brown hair - _but not hair long enough that it made you want to drown in_ - and sweet eyes - _but not eyes that seemed to hold the secrets of the universe_ - and while he shared Duo's ability to laugh readily, he wasn't fascinating to her. He was insipid, and she wondered if all men were going to be, after having known Duo Maxwell as a lover.

"Yes, Mr. Adams?" she said, trying to keep from sounding as frustrated with him as she felt. It was a hard thing, being a former female soldier. She was pretty and bright, and owning her own business made her quite an attractive commodity to all comers.

"I was wondering if you'd be interested in-"

She put her hands on her hips, the way she had used on Duo when she had truly been pissed with him. Her glare was formidable as she looked down her nose at the man who stood a good foot taller than she was. "Haven't I made myself clear? I am not interested in dating a man who is a decade older than I am! I just broke off a serious relationship a few months ago, and I'm not getting involved with anyone else!" she snapped. "I've tried being polite, but I want you to get it through your thick skull that I'm not going to date you!"

Brent was calm when he replied, "I know."

"I-" she began, ready to rip into him again, but pausing when his words sank in. "What do you want, then?" she asked.

"You were OZ military, weren't you?"

She almost laughed. It was a good thing that her service record had never gotten out, and a very good thing that Duo's identity had never been revealed, or else she'd have some serious problems on her hands. "For a while," she answered neutrally. 

"They're holding a memorial tonight, in honor of Treize Khushrenada. I was wondering if you'd like to come."

Hilde opened her mouth to refuse, but instead found a question tripping off of her lips. "Why now? He's been dead seven months."

Brent looked at her face, but she had the impression he wasn't seeing her. "It's August first. He would have been twenty-five today."

She had to admit she was curious. She had never met Treize, but anyone who had ever served with OZ learned to admire the man. "What time?" she found herself asking.

"Nine o'clock, the Shea Auditorium. I'll pick you up at eight, if you want to go." He held out a ticket in front of her face, a white slip of paper encoded with a computer code along the side. 

It was a bad idea, dredging up these memories, but she found herself agreeing. "Sure." It would be interesting, to see a memorial to Treize. She had always been interested in him.

"If you want to meet earlier, I'll take you-"

"Don't push it," she warned.

The stadium was packed, and she was a bit surprised. Around her, people of all walks of life gathered, their faces solemn and intent as they filed through the doors, presenting tickets to the ushers. Beside her, Brent was uncharacteristically restrained as he let her take in her surroundings without pushing himself on her.

"Wow," she murmured. "I'm amazed there's so many people here," she said, unable to keep from speaking her mind.

"There's similar events going on throughout the colonies and on Earth. A group is working on getting today declared a holiday to remember Treize," Brent said.

She stiffened a bit in surprised. "That's a bit hasty, isn't it?" she said. "He's only been dead for seven months. Surely we need to wait a little longer before we go around trying to declare…"

Brent held a finger to his lips. "Quiet. Just look and listen tonight, and you'll see why people feel that he was the greatest man of the age. You can argue later."

She nodded, realizing that arguing against Treize wouldn't be such a bright idea around here. People who were going to this kind of event would be among his most loyal followers, and rocking the boat would be a bad move. "What did you do during the war?" she asked, suddenly realizing she didn't know very much about Brent Adams.

"I was part of the changing tide," he said. "In the end, though, I was in the Treize faction."

_Ouch_, she thought. _He's definitely not one to argue about Treize with_. The Treize faction had gained a reputation for being somewhat fanatical since the war, picking up his philosophies to develop its own political parties both on Earth and in the colonies. Some of the more extreme members even denied that Treize was dead. "Oh," was all she could think of to say.

"He was a great man, Hilde," Brent said. "He impacted all of our lives… didn't he touch yours, in some way?"

She opened her mouth to deny it, but remembered her box of keepsakes at home. "I - yes," she murmured after a moment. "Yes… as a matter of fact, he did."

And that was a fact. She'd been a good soldier, knowing how to follow orders, but she wasn't cut out for it. Her problem was that she thought too much. A truly great foot soldier, the kind of foot soldiers OZ wanted in its ranks, were the ones who always followed orders, but Hilde couldn't do anything without thinking it over. She would have done better as an officer, but she was enlisted personnel.

OZ didn't want colonists in its officers program, and she didn't want to be there. She just wanted to be a pilot, believing it the best place for her talents.

She had been bright, eager, and ready to do what she ever was needed to protect the colonies she loved. When push came to shove, that had been her downfall - the fact that she loved the colonies, instead of her organization. In the end, it had worked out for her, but there had been times she had wondered if thinking was a good idea. Sometimes it would have been easier to be one of the mindless drones who simply followed orders without question.

But Hilde always questioned.

It had been hard being a female OZ pilot. While the legendary Lucrezia Noin had shown it was possible to be among the best even as a woman, female pilots were rare. Most women were relegated to support positions, and that was something Hilde had not wanted and would not have accepted for herself. Hilde needed to be in the thick of the action, feeling her adrenaline pumping and knowing her actions would directly have an impact on the world around her. She was a doer by nature. 

The first week had been the hardest. After the call had gone out through the colonies for recruits, she had answered, despite her mother's protests. She had abandoned her schooling to take what had been offered, knowing that her engineering background would get her foot in the door and once there, she would be able to get her hands on a mobile suit. She wanted to be a pilot, because she knew that while they had the highest casualty rate, they also had the best chance of seeing action.

And seeing action meant making that difference.

Hilde knew she'd be able to pilot. She never had any doubts she'd pass whatever tests they threw at her, because she'd always been something of a prodigy when it came to machines. She had an instinct, knowing that this button would do that, and by tweaking this switch that way, the machine would do this for her. Her aunt had teased Hilde about machines being better lovers for Schbeiker women then men, but for Hilde, it was almost the truth.

Hilde had anticipated the resentment for her skills. The men in her class of 126 outnumbered the women six to one, and the competition for the coveted pilot slots was fierce. She knew that only 10 of them would be selected for advanced training, and it soon became clear that she was on the fast track to one of those positions. Instead of accepting it gracefully, the others turned vicious, subtly seeking to scare her away through bullying and sabotage. The professors did nothing. She had to fight through on her own, for they believed it built character.

Hilde would be damned if they scared her away. She fought back, studying harder to throw the grading curve off and making sure the worst of them never managed to corner her alone. It would only be a week of assessments, but it would be a week that would show them all what Hilde Schbeiker was made of.

She did. She graduated first in her class, and was offered that position she so prized. And with it came an official commission from OZ, signed with the neat, crisp handwriting of Treize Khushrenada.

She was smart enough to realize that it was a stamp. Important people like Treize had stamps of their signatures made, and secretaries used them for this kind of thing. Still, it was thrilling to see that she had some form of acknowledgement from the leader of her organization, second-hand though it was. It meant that she was well on her way to becoming a soldier.

Three months later, she would be helping to blow up a moon base and letting a Gundam pilot escape. Loyalties changed, she discovered.

But she kept that letter of commission, to remember.

Brent waited as she reflected. He was polite about it, though after a minute he cleared his throat. "Hilde, we have to take our seats. The ceremony's about to start."

She agreed distractedly, wondering how Brent could have known about the letter. The only other person who had ever found out about it was Duo, and he had been more amused than annoyed to see her keeping a letter from a man who had been his worst enemy.

_"Treize was Treize. I never tried to understand him, because it simply would have given me a headache - never tried to understand Zechs for that matter, either. Zechs was a major yo-yo, on this side one day, on another the next. Treize though…. Treize had consistency, you just couldn't see it. It was like he was seeing something I couldn't. I left the thinking up to the others - I just wanted to blow things up."_

Hilde rather thought Duo was underestimating himself, but she hadn't called him on it. It had been one of his better days when he said that, and she had simply fallen back, laughing. Calling Zechs Merquise a yo-yo wasn't something most people would do… it was disrespectful to the dead.

The crowd was thick and intense and she wanted to get through them as quickly as possible. The atmosphere wasn't anything she was thrilled with - it was like entering one of the religious revivals her mother had been so fond of. What did all these people see in Treize? She wondered, looking around. The demographics of the crowd were interesting: many of them were probably former soldiers, like herself, but there were just as many people who were likely civilians.

"Who are all these people?" she wondered aloud.

"They're people Treize gave hope to," Brent replied softly. "Treize was the one who stopped the war, with his sacrifice. He never forgot the common soldier; he never turned us into mere machines. When he died… he took a part of us with him."

She shivered. Something about Brent's tone struck her as frightening. "People die, Brent, even the greatest men. Death is the great equalizer."

Brent looked over the audience. "Sometimes I wonder if he's really dead - how can that have happened? How can he have been killed by a Gundam pilot?"

"The pilot was the better fighter," Hilde said, though she, too, had wondered. Wufei wasn't the most skilled of all the pilots, from what little Duo had told her. She wondered if Treize had let himself die, knowing his death was more important than his life.

Their seats were in the middle of the second tier, and they made their way over the row, careful to avoid stepping on the feet of those who were already seated. "Was he?" Brent asked. "Or did he know something we didn't?"

Hilde couldn't answer that one. She shook her jacket off, using it to pad her seat. The seats were notoriously uncomfortable. Brent smiled a bit at her, and handed her a candle as she settled in. "Here. You're going to need this."

She stared at it a bit at the white votive candle. "Why?"

"The ceremony will end with a candlelight vigil, with hopes of peace."

She nodded, feeling even more out of place. _What would these people do, if they knew that a Gundam pilot's ex-girlfriend sat among them?_ She wondered.

Glancing around at the crowd, Hilde suddenly felt the intense sense of community these people were trying to share. On a face there, grief, but determination. Another, wistfulness… One looked hopefully, while another seemed almost glad. There were quiet murmurs and people sharing stories of the war, working on healing the damage which had been done.

_Oh my… It's not about Treize anymore… It's about the new era he was trying to bring in… these people want to carry on that legacy._

Had Treize known that by dying, he would become the symbol of that new age? 

The lights flicked, and the audience was plunged into darkness, but inside, Hilde felt warm for the first time in months. _There's a new age coming_, the people around her seemed to say. 

"He was a hero to us all," Brent murmured from beside her, and she looked over to see tears running down his cheeks. She blinked and licked her lips, not quite sure how to do with a crying man. Duo she could have handled, but Brent was no Duo.

"Brent?"

"I remember when I first joined OZ…I was so young, and naïve. I'd been selected as test pilot, and my best friend James and I would talk about how we'd be heroes, you know, fighting to defend the people and all of that. It was only after he was killed that I began to realize how wrong we were. And how messed up the world was. And how something had to give."

She reached over and placed a hand on his arm, soothing. "How did he die?" Hilde asked, sensing he wanted to talk about it.

"He was killed by a Gundam," he said. "At Lake Victoria base. He was a flight instructor there, and he was there the night of the attack. It took me almost an entire month to accept the news."

Her heart clenched. A Gundam…that had been Wufei. It had been early in the war, and Wufei had always been a hothead, but that did nothing to justify still the many young men and women who had been killed in their sleep there. A thought struck her, and she felt chills up and down her spine when she realized that Treize had also been killed by Wufei.

It would not be a good idea to tell Brent that. She squashed down the part of her that begged to defend the name of the Gundams and nodded sympathetically instead.

"I'm sorry," she said, not knowing what else to say.

"I realize now, of course," Brent continued, "that James died in the line of duty and that he had expected something like this to happen. He was a very intelligent young man - brave, strong, one of the best up and coming young officers we had. The pilots he trained won't ever forget him, I promise you that."

"What happened after that?" Hilde questioned.

"I realized that Treize was right. His rhetoric…many people believed that he was advocating endless war. But that's not it, Hilde. Treize believed in peace. That's why he fought. Because he had a true vision of the world, you know? Treize was…almost like a savior."

Hilde nodded absently, mulling over his words in her head and wondering how much he had actually known about Treize. Some of that had been Treize, yes, but not all of it. In the end, Treize had been just a man, like the rest of them.

"Treize was a great man," she said. "It's a shame we lost him."

"I can't believe he's dead," Brent said, choking, and she realized he was crying again. She leaned over to him, tugging on his shirt.

"Treize isn't dead, Brent," she whispered.

His sorrowful eyes turned to her. "What?" he asked. There seemed to be a tremulous hope to his words, and she suddenly realized exactly how important the leader of OZ had been to him.

"Look around. As long as people carry his dream, Treize lives…"

  
Act 0 Part II | Act 0 Part IV | Back to Sainan no Kekka 


	5. Treize Khushrenada : The Creator of Hist...

_Gundam Wing is property of Sotsu Agency, Bandai Studios, and TV Asahi. Sainan no Kekka and all original characters and plot copyright 2000-2003 by Quicksilver and Gerald Tarrant. Please ask permission before reposting._

  
**SHIN KIDOU SENKI GUNDAM WING**

SAINAN NO KEKKA  
ACT ZERO, PART IV

** I believe your love  
Furue nagara  
Kuchidzuke ni kasaneta negai  
Anata ga ite watashi ga iru  
Wasurenaide itsumo**

I believe your dream  
Tsunoru omoi  
Itoshisa o inori ni kaete  
Kono kodou o tsutaetai yo  
Atsuku hageshiku so far away  
** I believe your love  
As we trembled  
We repeated our wish in a kiss  
You are here and so am I  
Please don't ever forget**

I believe your dream  
Feelings that get stronger  
Turning love into prayers  
I want to let you hear my heart beating  
Passionately, fiercely, so far away  


**--Gundam Wing, _Last Impression_  
[Endless Waltz]**  


  
  
**Scene XII: The Legend of Scorpio**

  


_"Who keeps an arrow in his bow,  
And if you prod him, lets it go?  
A fervent friend, a subtle foe - Scorpio."  
--Anonymous_

  
The things he remembered most about Treize Khushrenada weren't his commanding presence, or his brilliant speeches. Not his love for the arts and not even his amazing swordsmanship ability. Those things were things that everyone knew about Treize - the public Treize, the one who shone in front of the people and incited them to glory and victory for the good of mankind. That wasn't the Treize he knew.

He only dimly remembered the first time he had met Treize. The two of them had been young, mere boys, but he was the prince of a kingdom which no longer existed and Treize had been a Khushrenada, firmly on the side of the Federation, and one of the supporters of the Romefeller Foundation. He had wanted to go with his sister, when Darlian had taken her away. He'd known that terrible day what was coming. He'd seen it in his mother's eyes as she said goodbye, remembered Darlian standing there with that same knowledge in his face, and known full well that he would never see his mother and father again. He had thought that he and his sister would be together.

But Darlian had taken Relena, and he had never seen her again either.

He did not remember at all those first few terrible days out of Cinq. It was better that he didn't remember, because he didn't think that even now, a grown man who had been through so much, could deal with the childhood memories. There was something about memories made in childhood that made them much more vivid, much more blinding, than the ones collected over the years as an adult. He remembered running - a car, a train, darkness, tears. There were a lot of tears. Not his, but the ones of the woman who held him by the hand and hurried him along through the fatigue and the fear. There was fear too.

And then there was Treize.

Even as he had been introduced to the future heir of the Khushrenada estate, as he'd come forward numbly and shaken the hand of the boy who was scarcely taller than he was, he'd felt a chill. Of completion, maybe, or of destiny, as if everything that had happened in his life had only been leading up to this moment. He didn't much remember what Treize had looked like at the time - only noted the blue German eyes, the Slavik shape of his face, the grace with which the other carried himself, so poised and confident that he could have been the prince of the Cinq kingdom and Milliard Peacecraft merely the pretender.

The connections, the strings Treize had pulled for him, none of that mattered. What mattered was Treize the boy, and later Treize the man, who had shaped him, taught him everything he knew, given Zechs Merquise life.

The Khushrenadas were an odd family, with branches of the clan fervent Federation supporters and others on the opposite side of the political spectrum. Treize's father Reimond was neither - a fence-sitter, a politician of the very nature he remembered his own father Nathaniel had hated. But it was that fence-sitting that saved him in the end. It would have been very suspicious for Reimond to publicly announce that he'd somehow gained another child, but arrangements were made for his residence in one of the old private family mansions that dotted the countryside of Europe. This particular one was in France, and when he had arrived, hungry, tired, and so alone, Treize Khushrenada had been standing at the entrance waiting for him.

The first few weeks in that old house were hazy. He'd contracted some kind of virus that left him feverish and unable to swallow his food, and for several days lay in a kind of waking dream where he'd see again and again his mother's face as she turned away from him, his sister's crying, the smoke in the sky when he'd turned and looked back against the nursemaid's orders, even though she was holding him tightly, trying to prevent him from seeing his country, his home, go up in flames. Later, Treize told him that he'd been in to see him every day, and had sat at his bedside and read him mythology or classical literature. It came as a surprise that Treize, who even at eleven years old was busy with the kind of schooling and training that would befit the heir of one of the oldest noble houses in Europe, would have taken the time to come visit him, the landless prince of a fallen kingdom. Once he had asked Treize why he had done so.

The other man hadn't responded for a long time, and then had said in a calm voice, _because you and I were meant for something. The first time I saw you, I knew that we were meant for something._

It was Treize who had awakened in him his love of the stars, because Treize had been a stargazer from the first day they'd met. Treize had been both an astronomer and an astrologer, though he claimed he believed in astrology only so much as he could weed out the truths from the half-baked lies and old-wives tales that littered the practice. Astrology, to him, was something of endless fascination though of little real value. That was Treize - always curious, always wondering, carefully calculating but willing to embrace everything and anything as long as, to him, there was something of value to be learned.

In Treize's chambers and in his study were hung star charts and astrological diagrams, maps of constellations and old navigational parchments. He would spend hours sometimes poring over horoscopes, trying to predict exactly how accurate they were. For some reason, it never occurred to him that he could be wrong, that the ones who wrote the horoscopes were people who knew more about the subject than he did. As long as it was out there, he believed, it was to be studied, disproved if it could, and then if it could not be disproved, it was something to take to heart. There was really no in between.

That was why Treize had changed his own birthday. He'd learned this about after a year of living there, when August 1 had come and gone and he had asked Treize why they hadn't done anything for his birthday. He'd been startled when the other had informed him that his birthday really wasn't August 1, but November 1, but the official date on all his records, even his birth certificate, was August 1. August was under the sign of the Leo, the lion, the leader that Treize wanted to be. Treize was the ascending star, the waxing sun while the other stars were waning, and the astrologer side of him had wanted to capture that in stone.

But in reality, he'd admitted, both a bit ruefully and a bit proudly, he was no Leo. Treize was a Scorpio, the earth-crawler, the powerful, magnetic presence of a natural-born schemer, ruled by Mars and Pluto - war and death. But then again Treize had never regarded either with the same stigma that they seemed to carry with the rest of humankind. War and death, in Treize's eyes, were part of the natural cycle of things, the way things had to be.

He was Treize's eagle. That's what Treize told him a week after he had recovered from his fever and they were taking their dinner together on the western veranda, looking out at the setting sun. The Scorpio mythos spoke of the scorpion and the eagle, the crawler and the flier, the patient yet deadly killer and the beautiful bird of prey, two halves of a whole. Treize was the scorpion and he, Milliard Peacecraft, was the eagle, the one destined to fly higher and higher until he found himself among the stars.

He scoffed at first. Treize fascinated him and frightened him at the same time - such a passionate, bright mind covered in a veil of steel. Treize was more than a human, less than a god, even as a boy he had people in the Federation bowing before him. Sometimes after a conversation with Treize he would feel like something had taken him on a spin around the galaxy, dragging him through the molten cores of burning stars and then left him singed and gasping on a cold, dark planet at the end.

He wanted to be like Treize.

In Treize's mind, everything was an opera, those grandiose events that he would leave the house to attend every Saturday and then come back and sit up until two in the morning recounting the flawless performance of this singer or the substandard performance of that one, the beautiful plotlines and the gorgeous musical numbers. The world was not only a stage in Treize's mind - it was an opera, with the fanfares and the melodramatic arias and the blinding explosions of pathos that he so loved.

The name was Treize's idea, the mask also. If he was going to be the eagle, he would have to play the part to perfection. He had to become the part.

And that, in the end, was why he went to Lake Victoria.

It did seem a little foolish now, that he would have let someone, no matter how good a friend, dictate his life through the ruse of a legend, but at the time, the legend had been very very real to both of them. It wasn't in Treize's nature to cheat someone, to lie about something like that. Yes, he was a smooth liar and a clever politician, but there was something about the realm of destinies and stargazing and legends that he regarded as sanctified.

Treize didn't believe in God, but he was constantly searching for proof of one. Even until the end, even when he had changed into a man that neither of them knew, he was still searching for God. Or maybe it wasn't that Treize had changed, but it was he, Zechs Merquise, Milliard Peacecraft, whoever he was in Treize's eyes, that wasn't worthy to be his eagle anymore.

And now Treize was dead.

His eagle had left him, and maybe that was why he had died.

He didn't let that trouble him too much. There were so many ifs and perhaps-es and he was tired of hypothesizing, tired of hindsight. It wasn't like he wept bitterly for Treize, because there was nothing worth weeping about. He knew what Treize had tried to do - tried and succeeded. It was just like the end of an opera - the pathos, the brilliant explosion, except the explosion had been up in space and the pathos had been nothing but one man giving up.

That was what it all came down to. Treize had been searching for God for so long that he'd begun to think he was that God. But he wasn't God. He was just Scorpio, the one crawling along the earth, gazing up at the hot sun where his eagle flew, hoping that someday he could have wings too.

But it didn't matter now, because they were both dead. Treize Khushrenada and Zechs Merquise, burned up together in the last battle, trial by fire that they had braved and hadn't been strong enough to pass through. But still, they were together.

He remembered the one last conversation they'd had before he'd gone off to Lake Victoria. That last night on the veranda, gazing up at the stars and hearing the whisper of the night wind in the branches of the trees in the garden.

"I want to thank you for everything you've done for me," he'd said at last, preparing to stand up and head inside for the night. "You've given me more than I could ever have asked for - far more - given your time and resources for someone you didn't know, someone you had no obligation to help."

Treize had raised an eyebrow. "Why do you say that?"

"Well, you didn't know me. I was some no-name prince from a no-name kingdom that had been destroyed by the organization you serve, and if you'd turned me into the Federation, you'd have gotten more recognition than you would have known what to do with."

He had smiled that slow smile of his that only hinted at the secrets behind those blue eyes, hidden in under the elegant façade that he showed to the world and that even I had never seen through. "I don't want power and glory, Zechs. You know that."

"What do you want then?" he'd countered. "I don't want riddles and guessing games. For once."

He'd looked away to the horizon for a long moment, then sighed, a long, deep sigh. "You don't believe in destiny now," he said. "But…someday, you might." His bright gaze caught and held. "I hope that someday, you will."

If he'd believed in destiny he would have come home after the war and made his peace with the world. Would have sat down at his desk, pen in hand, a blank pad of paper before him, and begun to sketch out the words to a work that would take him perhaps the rest of his life, but a work so important that it could not be left forgotten. It would be the true legend of Scorpio, the tale of a man that had lived so briefly but died leaving an entire world to celebrate him, curse him, mourn him - a friend, a son, a brother, a mentor.

He didn't believe in destiny. Not anymore. He didn't know if he ever had. But he didn't need to anymore, because the only thing that had ever been his destiny he had already found, had, and lost.

  


* * *

  
**Scene XIII: Festival of the Harvest Moon**

  


_"A gem cannot be polished without friction,  
nor man perfected without trials."  
-- Chinese Proverb_

  
For a space colony, L5 was surprisingly traditional. The elders had brought with them all the ancient folklore, celebrations, and ethics that had been passed down from generation to generation through thousands of years of Chinese history, and transferring that to space was never a question. Instead, the question was how their children - the children of a truly new era, the era of space travel - would grow into proper Chinese adults without ever feeling the green earth of their motherland beneath their feet?

All this Wufei had learned from the history books, the thick scrolls and leather-bound volumes of vellum that lined the walls of the colony library. There were computers, of course, and all the information in those scrolls and books were safely stored electronically, in case something did ever happen. But reading the texts on a computer screen was about as tolerated as a child talking back to one of the elders - in other words, unheard of. There was something about the feel of paper on the skin, the smell of the old parchment, that brought history alive.

He'd been raised to be a scholar, inducted into the community on the Harvest Moon Festival the year of his ninth birthday, just like his father before him and his father before him. That was how it had been done in the mother country before they came to space, and that was how it would be done until the family line, the clan line, was extinguished.

He'd always loved the moon. Perhaps it was just because he had been raised Chinese and so thought of the moon as something mystical, magical, awe-inspiring, mysterious and feminine and beautiful all at once. The guardian of the night. His mother had a jade pendant that she wore on special occasions that she called her moon necklace, because when the moonlight struck the stone, it would glow a soft, pulsing white, a minature moon on her own breast.

When she died suddenly of surgical complications when he was ten, he'd taken that pendant and hung it by his window, so that the moonlight would find it every night. That way she would always be with him.

His father had left the colony when he had been only a baby, left the colony and tried to go back to earth, to China. His father had been born there in Shanghai before the clan had been exiled to space. According to the elders, Chang Anwei had always been a rash one, wanting what he could not have. He didn't have to guess very hard to figure out that what the elders meant by "what he could not have" was that his father missed the earth, missed China, and had braved the odds to go back.

The official records of the colony never mentioned Chang Anwei again, but when Wufei had been old enough, Elder Long pulled him aside and told him that a few days after his father's departure from the colony, a small shuttlecraft had been intercepted by Federation forces and been destroyed. He'd stood there, not sure how to react, and Elder Long's sharp eyes fixed on him.

"Do not grieve, for the cycle of life renews itself continually, even those whose ashes have been scattered in space."

"I can't grieve," Wufei said. "I didn't even know him. He deserved it…he killed himself for nothing."

"He is your blood," the elder said calmly, his aged voice creaking like trees in the wind, the artificial wind that blew across the colony sometimes, strong enough to simulate storms but not strong enough to cause any real damage. "Your blood, your ancestor. Honor him, respect his memory, but dwell not on his sacrifice."

The sun that shone down on the colony by day was an artificial sun, like the artificial wind, created by collecting rays of the real sun that was too far away to give as much light as the colony needed to survive. But the moon that shone through his window at night was the real moon - dim, faraway, but the real thing. He longed to see it up close, to watch the rabbit in its face jump nervously whenever the moon was full. That was the legend, at least, and he was a scholar, versed in the old legends.

There were things mentioned in the books that he had never seen. The ocean, wide, vast, and blue, that he could only imagine, because L5 was too small to provide little more than a small artificial lake from which the colonists pumped their fresh water. Mountains, tall snowcapped mountains. There were mountains on the colony, but Elder Long scoffed at them every chance he got, naming them little more than hills. "Where I came from," he would say, "the mountains were giants of stone, architecture of nature. You should see them, Wufei! You should see."

He wondered how old Elder Long was sometimes. He seemed as old as the mountains, as gray as the stone and just as unyielding. Those who he had journeyed with to the colony were long dead, but Wufei caught himself thinking more than a few times that Elder Long would never die - that he would only continue to exist, to grow older and older as the children grew up and had children of their own and died and those children grew up and still Elder Long would be.

On the Harvest Moon Festival every year, Elder Long would give a speech to the entire assembled colony. He'd reluctantly allowed the use of vidscreens to broadcast his speech into every home simply because the council hall was too small to fit every citizen, though Wufei knew that if the elder had had his way, every citizen would have been ordered to cram into the building which, though grand and spacious for seven council members and their clerks, would not even have fit a third of the colony population. The speech was always given from behind a podium that made Elder Long look even shorter and more shriveled than he appeared in real life, with red and gold decorations on the walls and images of dragons projected onto the tapestries behind him.

In Wufei's mind, the dragon had always been associated with the moon. He wasn't quite sure why. Both were Chinese legends, but had no real interconnection, no real correlation. But he would still stare at the moon outside his window at night, dreaming of dragons with gilded silver wings, coming to bear him away to the stars.

He was a dreamer, Elder Long told him with some affection, as much affection as the old man had ever shown to anyone. They were Chinese, after all, and affection was not given in verbal or physical terms, but through the act of discipline. Elder Long said that he, Chang Wufei, was the most scholarly of all scholar boys he'd ever seen. That had pleased him, because even as young as he was, he'd known that was what he wanted to do for the rest of his life - sit happily surrounded by books and scrolls and quills and ink and peer through his trusty reading glasses at fading brush strokes of ancient characters.

It was at his eleventh Harvest Moon Festival that something first happened to make him think again. After the Elder's annual speech, the festival would actually begin, with the moon cakes and dancing and music. He knew that Elder Long would go into the temple to seek counsel from the ancestors while the festivities were going on, and he was determined to speak with the Elder beforehand, to ask him his opinion on a rather hard passage of text that he had been trying to understand.

"It's a festival, Wufei," Elder Long said in response to his question, as he caught up to the old man on the temple steps. "Go be merry with your family."

He paused. "They're not my family."

"They're your clan and therefore your family."

"That is to say that pigeons and hawks are related and therefore family. Would you want a pigeon to consort with a hawk?"

Elder Long began to laugh, which is to say that he made a wheezing noise that lasted for approximately thirty seconds and then stopped. When he had finished, he said, "are you saying that you are a pigeon, young Wufei?"

"No sir. I'm saying that I'm a hawk and I don't consort with pigeons."

Elder Long wheezed for approximately another thirty seconds, then peered at him with watery eyes that were somehow still bright. "Come with me," he said abruptly, then hurried up the steps with a haste that seemed impossible for someone as ancient as he.

The inside chamber was bare except for a small altar and a kneeling cushion on the floor. The cradle of the altar held a single stick of barely smoking incense and there were bright flowers lining its edge. Elder Long motioned for Wufei to stand behind him as he lowered himself slowly on creaking knees to the cushion, let out a long sigh, then went still.

He tried to be patient, but his child's curiosity got the best of him, and at length he ventured, "what are you asking them, Elder?"

"I'm not asking anything," Elder Long snapped. "I'm waiting for you to ask me."

He blinked. "Ask what, sir?"

"Isn't that why you came?" The wizened face turned to look at him, and in the dim moonlight and the smoke of the incense, there was a faintly sinister look about it that made him shiver. "You wanted an answer."

"What is to become of me, Elder?" he whispered, and the aged eyes regarded him with a moment more of sharpened wisdom, and then turned away. The smoke of the incense wafted upwards to wards the darkened ceiling, towards the full moon, and he held his breath.

It seemed like ages before there was a rustle of cloth and Elder Long turned back to him with a look of almost curiosity in his eyes.

"Sir?" Wufei said.

"You're a strange one, Chang Wufei," the old man whispered, then made his peculiar wheezing laugh. "Do you believe…you might not be a scholar after all."

He frowned. "Why not?"

"Why not?" Elder Long crowed. "Why not? One does not question the ancestors, boy. One simply bows and takes what has been said and obeys!" This was accompanied by a thump on the ground to emphasize its importance, and Wufei jumped.

"I am sorry, Elder," he said, bowing and beginning to back out of the room, but a sudden swiping gesture by the ancient clawed hand held him.

"I'm not done," Elder Long barked, but the expression on his face was partly of puzzlement and partly of wonder. "You will fly, boy."

"Fly?"

"That's what they told me. Fly. Out of here, out of the colony…"

"But no one has ever left the colony…" he trailed off, remembering the story of Chang Anwei and how he loved his mother country so much he was willing to risk everything - his family, his life - to return. "No one has ever left the colony and survived."

"No one," Elder Long repeated. "Not yet."

"But my father-"

Elder Long's watery eyes fixed on him again and he let the question slide into silence, into the cloying perfume of the incense smoke and the sweet odor of the flowers around the altar.

"You are not your father, Chang Wufei."

The words of the ancestors were, after all, not to be questioned, only to be accepted, so the matter was never mentioned again. But it was like being Chinese, Wufei knew. It was not to be questioned, only to be accepted, to embrace the tradition and the bad as well as the good. To know that the story of your father leaving his family, his wife and his baby son, to pursue a fruitless dream was not just a story of folly, it was a story of loyalty. To know that the moon pendant that hung by his window to catch the light at night held within it the secret of a mother's love for her child.

That was how history was brought alive, after all. It wasn't just the tellings and retellings of tales, the brush of ink across paper, because ink and paper and words were empty without the storyteller or the scholar to give them wings. History, in the end, was only a collection of small things: a father's sacrifice, a mother's pendant, the sound of children's laughter, a young girl with flowers in her hair, the wind and the waves pounding against the mountains he might never see, a shooting star. All these things, taken and collected and treasured in glass boxes of words, kept there forever so that even death and war and destruction could not erase them.

  


* * *

  
**Scene XIV: No More Than A Mortal Man**

  


_"Everyone must pay for their sins.  
Even my death is not without meaning."  
--Treize Khushrenada, Gundam Wing_

  
It was Christmas Eve in Geneva. The city had been preparing for the holiday for a month, and every time Une left the base, she had been confronted with signs of the season with trees, holiday lights and crèches. She had forced her eyes to maintain a carefully blank expression, containing the urge to cringe back. Christmas was nothing for her to celebrate anymore.

Une stared out the window at the gentle snowfall that dusted the Preventers' compound, wondering if she should leave. It was ridiculous to be here, this time of night. The offices were closed and the Preventers were operating on a skeleton staff. Everyone else had gone home to be with their families, but she had no one. Her mother, the only family she had ever known, was dead, and since Treize had died on this night a year ago...

Had it really been only a year? One year ago, the battle to end all battles had waged in space... It seemed impossible to believe that so much had changed in that time. The months had been so packed with activity and it seemed like Treize had been dead for centuries sometimes.

Sometimes, though, she expected to turn around and feel his hand on her shoulder as he chided her for something, for acting too rashly. She always rushed, where he managed to get things done just as quickly but with more style. She still hadn't mastered the elegance he had wanted for her. All she had done was work to keep his dream, a peaceful future where soldiers weren't needed for wars, on the right track. Eventually the Preventers would only be glorified police officers; soldiers were fading; within her lifetime, there would be no need for the career path of "soldier."

Now there was only the softly falling snow, seeming to blanket the world in muffled tranquility. It seemed to show how far they had come. They had all worked hard to bring themselves, their world, to this point, and perhaps she had worked herself hardest, some would say. She had devoted herself to creating a world peacekeeping force answerable to the government, separate but loyal, and she hoped that he would approve. It probably wouldn't have been the way he would have done about it, but there was no one who could replace him. She was a paltry substitute; all she could do was make guesses at the right path.

The paperwork on her desk never seemed to end. No matter how hard she concentrated, the eighteen hour days she put in, there was always more. She would delegate, but finding the personnel for the Preventers was something that had been near impossible. Many had died in those final battles; many more didn't want to return to a life of military duty. Still others couldn't be trusted...

She smiled a bit, thinking of Zechs - no, Milliard's- recent return. Treize would have been glad to know his prodigy had come back, had survived. Of all of them, Treize's heart had been divided between her, Zechs, and the pilots... they and the common soldiers were the ones who were to carry on his legacy, though few people realized what that legacy really was.

It annoyed her. People had wondered why she had thrown herself so full-heartedly into this mission, but they didn't understand - but that was because they didn't understand Treize. She picked up a pen, tapping it against one of the numerous forms that bureaucracy seemed to create, wishing that she could convey that to someone, make them understand.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the door chime. "Enter!" she called. She had thought everyone had gone...

The inner door, an old-fashioned wooden one designed for elegance, was pushed opened. A sharp-featured Asian face peeked in, and Une blinked in surprise. "Li? I thought you had the night off?"

Major Li Chun Tian, her immediate aide, shrugged, coming into the room further. "I traded someone else- I'm not Christian, so this night really doesn't mean anything to me. Someone has to be around to screen calls. Just because it's the holidays doesn't mean the world stops... crime goes up, and some of the Treize cultists might try something, since.." she hesitated. "I guess I don't need to remind you."

Une set her pen down, her teeth clenching at the mention of the Treize cultists. They were a small, splinter group, mainly made of Treize factionalists who were beginning to preach that Treize had been a true messiah and were trying to create a religion around him. They were still disorganized, but she greatly feared one of their number managing to come together with an workable religious philosophy. Fanatics were hard to deal with, because the government would be accused of suppressing religious freedom if they acted against them. 

"No, you don't. Those idiots are one of the banes of my existence," Une answered finally.

Li seemed to be a bit embarrassed about the whole mess, which didn't surprise Une. From what Une remembered of Li's profile, Li was an atheist. "Well, they are a bit cracked. No human is a god."

"No. Especially not Treize," Une said softly. "He was extraordinary, but in the end, he was only human. We seem to be forgetting that. I worry about it - in ten years, in a hundred, when no one remembers the man he was, what will history say? Will the Treize cultists succeed in creating a religion around him?"

Li remained silent for a long moment, apparently reluctant to speak. "Well... it's easier to follow a man not yet dead for a year than putting your faith in an older religion, sometimes. New faiths gather followers for reasons." There was a detachment in her expression.

"Yes, but... religion speaks to the divine." Une shivered as she rose, turning to stare at the snow, which was falling more heavily. 

"I did say they were cracked," Li said. "I understand why they say he was a god. He did seem godlike..."

Une started to laugh at that. "He did... didn't he? But there was a man under it. He was handsome, brilliant, charismatic... but he had flaws, Li. He had quirks. He loved chocolate to the point of not being able to control himself when you gave him a box - he'd eat his way through the entire box in one sitting. He claimed it was a genetic trait as an excuse. When he'd get nervous, he'd pick at his right glove, wearing it out before the left glove. Treize liked gardening and stars, and he liked to doodle. His artwork was horrible, but he never gave up trying. And he always wanted to learn how to play the guitar, but never found the time..." 

"You knew him very well." Though Une couldn't see Li's face, she assumed her aide's face was just as neutral as usual. Li had been selected for the position partly for her ability to blend into the background as well as her sheer brilliance. 

Une lifted her fingers to trace patterns in the pane of the window. When she had been younger, it had been a hobby. As a child, she had believed she could communicate with angels this way. Now she wrote silent messages to eyes that couldn't see any longer, a spirit that was out of her reach.

Her aide was waiting for some kind of reply. "I loved him. When you love someone, you watch them, try to know everything about them. Have you ever been in love?"

"No. I'm still heart-whole." Li seemed blithely unconcerned with the fact at how inexperienced in life that made her.

"I don't know whether to envy or pity you. Love is a wonderful experience; I wouldn't trade my years with Treize for anything. I paid for it - the hurt after he died..." Une lowered her eyes, shading her feelings. "It felt like he'd taken a part of me with him."

"He did," Li said softly, breaking out of her shell. "I've never been in love, but I've loved people. I was seven when my parents died, and it felt like a part of my spirit died as well. I think it's because when we love someone, we give them a part of our hearts. You've heard the saying, 'I'll give you my heart,' right?"

Une turned back to her aide, framed by the window. Li was ignoring the difference in their ranks, making an effort at offering comfort, awkward though it was. Une appreciated it. "Yes. I guess a heart is never something we can retrieve. But the pain grows less... I don't think of him as much as I did in those first days. I wonder why?"

"Because the heart heals, or so I've been told." Li shrugged. "I don't really know. You'd have to ask someone who's been in love."

Une shook her head. "I don't know why I'm rambling right now about Treize. I've made it a policy not to talk about him unless it's important. The news shows keep wanting to interview me for documentaries and tributes, but... they seem so petty. Tomorrow I won't want to talk. Maybe it's the night?"

"Anniversaries bring out weird things in all of us," Li said. "We start reflecting on what our lives are like, and what we could have done differently. That's why we mark them."

Une's lips tried to smile, but were unable to. "You're wise. I wish I could perceive things like that, sometimes..."

"It's because I'm outside the situation. We all screw up in our personal lives and need a different perspective, Though if you're worried about the Treize cultists, maybe the best thing to do is work on a documentary. We have a good PR unit here, and if you use it right, you can show the Treize you knew. The one who ate chocolate."

Une's eyes widened as she considered it. She had been rejecting the idea of talking about Treize for personal reasons, never considering the possible benefits. "That's not a bad idea. The media has unbelievable power, when it comes to controlling the public opinion."

"It's one of the first things I was taught as your aide, ma'am. Spin the news. So if you spin Treize's life, show the Treize you knew, rather than the demigod...."

Une shut her eyes, nodding. "We let him be built into a demigod immediately following the world to help stabilize the peace. Now it's time to shatter the illusion and let him be remembered as a man... a man people can strive to reach. Whose ideals we strive to obtain and uphold."

"I'll have the PR department get to work on the concept on the 26th," Li said. She went over to the office closet and keyed it open. "I think you should leave now, ma'am. There will be a midnight mass at the base's church."

Une blinked a bit at the sudden change of topic. "I-"

"You're Christian, right?" Li smiled a bit. "I think it would be a good idea for you to attend. You need to be doing something tonight, rather than sitting alone in your office. Church gives people a sense of community, and that's what you need." She pulled out Une's Preventers coat and came back over to her. "I'm already here, so you don't need to worry about the base. If something goes drastically wrong, I'll have you called. Just keep your pager on you."

Une opened her mouth to protest. "I hate Christmas." It was true; she had used to love it, but since Treize had died, she couldn't see any reason to celebrate. All it reminded her of was of his loss. She missed him so much this night; it wasn't right to expect her to be cheerful tonight, of all nights.

"I'm not surprised. But you need to pretend to like it. Years later, people will ask what you did on this anniversary... and what do you want the answer to be?"

Une stared into Li's face before reaching out to take the jacket. "I don't like you very much right now."

"Permission to speak freely?" Li asked. She brought her hands behind her back and drew herself into a parade rest stance, a carefully blank expression on her face.

Une quirked an eyebrow. Li tended to be retiring and strictly formal; this evening had been drastically out of character for her. Asking for permission to speak freely meant she was going to say something Une didn't want to hear, but it would be interesting. "Granted."

"We rarely like you, either. You're a hard taskmaster, and you have a nasty temper. But we respect you. You work hard for us, and we'll do the same for you."

Une looked at Li, knowing she should feel offended, but was somehow unable to. "I work hard for everyone. I work for the people… like Treize did. And… that was the key, that I wish people would understand."

"Oh?"

"Treize wasn't a politician or a leader. He was a person who cared about others, and he loved them deeply. And it's that legacy, more than anything, that we need to continue." She slid the jacket on, taking another glance out the window. "Treize was about living life; he celebrated every moment of it, and he mourned for those who fell. I'll go to church tonight, for him. Because he wouldn't want me sitting alone, mourning. He would want me to continue to live."

  
**END SAINAN NO KEKKA ACT 0**

  
Act 0 Part III | Act I Part I | Back to Sainan no Kekka 


	6. End Note

_Gundam Wing is property of Sotsu Agency, Bandai Studios, and TV Asahi. Sainan no Kekka and all original characters and plot copyright 2000-2003 by Quicksilver and Gerald Tarrant. Please ask permission before reposting._

  
**SHIN KIDOU SENKI GUNDAM WING  
SAINAN NO KEKKA**

Here Ends Act o.

From here, we recommend you head to the main story, Sainan no Kekka. It can be found either on our fanfiction.net account, but more current releases are found at , along with many additional extras.

We hope older fans enjoyed this sojourn into the past of our story, and newer readers have found our universe intriguing. 

**Quicksilver and Gerald Tarrant, Sainan no Kekka authors  
21 March 2003**

  
Act 0 Part I | Back to Sainan no Kekka 


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